Monday morning didn't bring the usual comfort of a routine. After the dream, the very air in my bedroom felt like it was holding its breath. I dressed in a professional, charcoal-gray pencil skirt and a crisp white blouse, pinning my hair back in a tight, sensible bun. I needed to feel grounded. I needed to remember that I was Ciara Diaz, a marketing intern with a future, not the trembling girl from a haunted cathedral.
The headquarters of CAS was a monolith of glass and steel that pierced the city skyline. It was the kind of place where hushed voices and the clicking of expensive heels defined the atmosphere. I had spent the last month here as a ghost, fetching coffee and organizing spreadsheets, but today was my first major project presentation for the branding team.
I stepped into the boardroom, my tablet clutched to my chest. The room was freezing, the air conditioning humming a low, industrial tune.
"Ah, Ciara. Just in time," my supervisor, Mr. Henderson, said without looking up. "The executive board decided to sit in on the marketing pitches today. Specifically the Finance Director. He's looking to see if the budget allocations match the vision."
My heart did a strange, nervous skip. I took my place at the head of the table, setting up the projector. The heavy mahogany doors at the back of the room swung open.
A man walked in, and the temperature in the room seemed to plummet and skyrocket all at once.
It was him.
Zade Ed Clarason.
He moved with the same predatory grace I'd seen in the church, but here, in a tailored three-piece navy suit that emphasized the massive width of his shoulders, he looked like a king among peasants. The French beard was meticulously groomed, and his presence was so suffocating that the other three executives in the room seemed to shrink.
He didn't acknowledge me. He sat at the far end of the long table, leaning back and crossing one muscular leg over the other.
"Begin," he said.
The voice. That same low, gravelly rumble that had commanded me to look at him in my dreams.
The voice. That same low, gravelly rumble that had commanded me to look at him in my dreams.
I started the presentation, my voice wavering for the first three sentences before my professional training took over. I spoke about market penetration and demographic reach, clicking through slides of bright colors and data points. But I couldn't focus.
Because Zade wasn't looking at the slides.
He was looking at me.
His gray eyes were like twin lasers, tracing the line of my throat, the curve of my lips, and the way my skirt pulled slightly as I moved. It wasn't a professional gaze. It was a slow, systematic stripping. He was unwrapping me with his eyes in front of everyone, his expression completely impassive, his large hands folded over a leather-bound folder.
I felt exposed. I felt naked. Every time I dared to glance his way, I found him watching the pulse in my neck. He didn't take a single note. He just watched, his icy gaze burning through my clothes until I felt the phantom heat of his palms against my skin again.
"Thank you, Ms. Diaz," Mr. Henderson said when I finished. "Any questions from Finance?"
Zade leaned forward, his eyes finally meeting mine. A dark, knowing glint flickered in those gray depths. "No questions," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "The... assets speak for themselves."
I practically tripped over my own feet exiting the room.
By Saturday, the internship at CAS felt like a fever dream, but the reality of the house cleansing was far more pressing. Mama had been in a state of religious mania all morning, scrubbing baseboards and arranging the lilies I'd eventually gone back to get.
"The house must be pure, Ciara! The Clarason family is sending a representative to oversee the donation of the new altar pieces," Mama chirped, adjusting her lace shawl.
My blood turned to ice. "The Clarason family?"
"Yes, dear! They are the primary patrons of St. Jude's. We are so blessed that they take such a personal interest in the parish families."
The doorbell rang.
I stood frozen in the hallway as Mama hurried to the door. I prayed to every saint I knew that it would be an elderly assistant or a church clerk.
The door opened.
The afternoon sun silhouetted a figure that took up the entire frame. 6'1" of solid, intimidating muscle. He was dressed in a black button-down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with veins and strength.
"Mr. Clarason!" Mama gasped, sounding like she was about to faint. "We are so honored. Please, come in."
Zade stepped into our small foyer, his presence instantly making the ceiling feel lower, the walls more cramped. He looked around the room with a cold, analytical eye until his gaze landed on me, standing in the shadows of the hallway.
A slow, predatory smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, hidden mostly by his beard, but I saw it.
"Mrs. Diaz," he said, his voice echoing through the house. "It's a pleasure to be in a home so... dedicated to tradition."
He walked toward me, the scent of sandalwood and rain filling the narrow space. Mama was already fluttering toward the kitchen to get tea, leaving us alone for a heartbeat.
He stopped just inches from me. He was so tall I had to crane my neck to see him. He looked down at me, his eyes darkening to the color of a stormy sea.
"We meet again, Ciara," he whispered, the sound too low for Mama to hear.
"You... you're the director," I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Why are you here?"
"I told you in the boardroom at CAS, didn't I?" He leaned in, the heat radiating off him in waves, his shadow swallowing me whole. "I like to keep a very close eye on my investments."
He reached out, his large hand hovering near my face for a second before he reached past me to touch a lily on the hall table. His knuckles brushed my shoulder, and the spark was so violent I nearly gasped.
"This house needs a cleansing," he murmured, his eyes locked onto mine with a terrifying, obsessive hunger. "But I think you and I both know that water won't wash away what's coming."