Selene’s POV
“I should have never taken this job. He’s getting too close.”
I grip the edge of my desk, my fingers digging into the wood as I watch the digital clock on my computer screen tick forward. The office is quiet, but my mind is racing, screaming at me that this was a mistake.
At first, I thought I could handle it. I convinced myself that I could just keep my head down, do my work, and stay out of his sight. But I was wrong.
He’s watching me. I can feel it.
At every meeting, his gaze lingers too long. In the hallways, he’s always there—never speaking, just watching, observing. And when I’m not looking, I can feel the weight of his eyes on me like a silent storm gathering over my head.
He knows.
Maybe not everything, not yet, but he’s putting the pieces together. And if there’s one thing I know about Dominic Castellano, it’s that he doesn’t stop until he has all the answers.
I inhale deeply, trying to steady my nerves, but it’s useless. My hands won’t stop shaking. I push them into my lap, squeezing them together. I need to get through this day. I need to act normal.
But how can I, when every time I see him, memories flicker in the back of my mind?
That night. The bar. The scent of whiskey. A low voice whispering something in my ear. Hands—warm, strong—gripping my waist. A flash of dark eyes. The same pair of eyes that Rosie has.
My stomach twists, nausea curling in my throat.
When I saw Dominic for the first time after six years, I knew instantly. I didn’t require a DNA test, nor proof—Rafael and Rosalie bear his stamp.
It wasn’t just the way they looked alike. It was the way they carried themselves, the way they both had the same fierce stare when they were angry, the same stubbornness written into their bones.
I close my eyes briefly, swallowing down the rising panic. I need to know what happened that night. Did Dominic use me? Did he know what he was doing? Did he… hurt me?
I don’t want to believe it. My instincts tell me no, but instincts don’t mean anything when my memories are shattered, full of gaps and blackouts.
The thought that he might have known all this time, that he might have just left me alone to fend for myself with his children—it makes me sick.
But something about his reaction… the way his brows furrowed, the confusion in his eyes when he demanded answers from me… it didn’t seem fake.
Could it be possible that he doesn’t remember either?
No. That’s wishful thinking.
I need proof.
I spend hours going through my old things—files, bills, anything that might jog my memory. I dig through drawers, pulling out old folders, old notebooks, until my fingers close around something crumpled and faded inside the jacket I was wearing that night.
A receipt. My breath catches.
It’s from the hotel. The night everything changed.
My hands tremble as I smooth it out, my eyes scanning the faded ink. Date: Six years ago. The name on the reservation—
I freeze.
It’s not Dominic’s name. I stare at the letters, my mind refusing to process what I’m seeing. The room wasn’t booked under Dominic Castellano. Then who was supposed to be there that night?