Author's POV

The air in the subterranean command centre tasted of stale cigar smoke and expensive cologne, a heavy, cloying mix that clung to the velvet drapes and polished chrome. It was one in the morning, the hour when the city above slept in a fragile peace, unaware of the predators gathering in the belly of the concrete fortress.

Vincent sat perched upon a throne of carved obsidian and black leather, his silhouette cutting a jagged edge against the dim amber lighting. Around him, thirty of his highest-ranking captains stood in a semi-circle, their faces etched with a mixture of boredom and disciplined fear. Vincent shifted, the leather creaking under his weight. He didn't speak. He didn't have to. The silence he cultivated was a weapon, a heavy blanket that smothered any impulse toward casual conversation. With a flick of his wrist, he hit a remote.

A massive LED screen flared to life, bathing the room in a harsh, white glow. It wasn't a map of shipping lanes or a list of debtors. It was a photograph. A woman. She was caught in a candid moment, laughing, her hair a wild halo of black curls, her eyes bright with a genuine warmth that felt alien in a room filled with killers.

One of the captains, a thick-necked man named Ryan who had grown too comfortable in his position, smirked. He stepped forward, his voice leaking a coarse, misplaced confidence. Command us, sir. We will drag this woman here and make her kne— The sound was a sudden, violent crack that shattered the silence. A single bullet tore through the air, punching a neat, crimson hole directly between Ryan's eyes. The man didn't even have time to blink. His head snapped back, and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings severed, his body hitting the polished floor with a wet, heavy thud. The remaining men froze. Their breath hitched in unison, eyes widening as they stared at the corpse, then slowly looked up at Vincent.

Vincent hadn't moved from his throne. The suppressed pistol in his hand smoked slightly, a thin ribbon of grey drifting toward the ceiling. His expression remained a mask of glacial indifference, but his eyes—dark and predatory—were fixed on the screen. Not a word against my Aurora.

The words sent a ripple of shock through the ranks. The men exchanged frantic, silent glances. They knew Vincent. He viewed women as disposable commodities, temporary distractions to be used for a night of release and tossed aside like spent cartridges. He had no heart, no soft spot, and certainly no capacity for devotion. To hear him claim a woman—to hear the possessive edge in his voice—was as shocking as if he had announced he had grown a conscience.

Vincent stood up. He descended the steps of the dais with a slow, predatory grace, stepping over Ryan’s cooling body without a second glance. He stopped in the center of the room, his presence expanding to fill every inch of the space. Listen up, all of you. The woman in this picture is Aurora. She is mine. I want you all to treat and respect her as you treat and respect me. Any hand raised against her, any word spoken in malice, any gaze that lingers too long with lust—I will personally carve the offense out of your skin.

He scanned the room, his gaze landing on a group of fifty elite guards standing at the perimeter. You fifty. I am specially assigning you to her. You will guard, watch, protect, monitor, and inform me of everything regarding Aurora. I want a chronological log of her day. Whether she eats or not—if she misses a meal, you inform me immediately, and I will personally see to it that she is fed. If there is the tiniest threat, the smallest shadow that looks too menacing, you will give up your lives to save her. Is that clear? Yes, sir! the guards roared in perfect, terrifying synchronization.

The sterile scent of isopropyl alcohol and ozone clung to Aurora’s skin like a second layer. She stepped out of the operating theater, her shoulders sagging as the adrenaline of the last five hours finally ebbed away. It was 11:00 AM. She had arrived at the hospital at 5:30, diving straight into an emergency cardiothoracic surgery that had pushed her to the absolute limit of her endurance. Her hands, still trembling slightly from the precision required to suture a leaking aorta, scrubbed the last of the surgical soap from her skin.

Her stomach let out a low, demanding growl that echoed in the quiet of the scrub room. She was starving, her throat parched, and her mind felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool. She made her way toward her private cabin, her clogs clicking rhythmically on the linoleum.

All she wanted was her wallet and a quick trip to the cafeteria before her next round of patient checks. When she pushed open the door to her office, she stopped. Resting squarely in the center of her mahogany desk was a small, cream-colored piece of stationery. There was no envelope.

Curiously, Aurora picked up the note. The handwriting was elegant, a sharp, masculine script that flowed with an authoritative grace. I know you didn't eat, so I have given your breakfast to Mrs. Shawn, the lady in the cafeteria. Ask her to heat it up and then eat. There was no signature. No name. Aurora frowned, a small, confused smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It must be Grace's work.

She hurried to the cafeteria, the smell of burnt coffee and steamed vegetables filling the air. As she approached the counter, Mrs. Shawn, a plump woman with a kind face and a permanent flour smudge on her cheek, beamed at her. Ah, Dr. Aurora! Just the person. I've got your order right here, dear. Just popping it in the warmer for a second. Mrs. Shawn handed her a plate of Avocado Toast with Prosciutto. The bread was perfectly toasted, a deep golden brown, topped with creamy, smashed avocado and thin, salty ribbons of cured ham that glistened under the fluorescent lights.

Aurora sat in a quiet corner, the first bite sending a wave of relief through her system. The saltiness of the prosciutto clashed perfectly with the richness of the avocado. As she chewed, she felt a strange warmth bloom in her chest. She reached for her phone, thinking of sending a quick text to Grace to thank her, but she paused. Grace would likely respond with a grumpy reminder that Aurora needed to sleep more, and she didn't have the energy for a debate.

She finished the meal quickly, the food fuelling her for the long afternoon of ward rounds and patient consultations. She didn't notice the man in the dark suit standing by the cafeteria exit, his earpiece buzzing with a report. Ma’am is eating sir, the guard whispered into his collar. Miles away, in a darkened office, Vincent leaned back in his chair, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. Good. Make sure she drinks water. If she faints from exhaustion, I'll have your head.

The walk back to Aurora’s apartment was a sensory blur. The late evening sun had disappeared, leaving the city in a pleasant, cool twilight. A light breeze carried the scent of rain and damp pavement, fluttering the hem of her coat which she had draped over her arm. Usually, Aurora loved this walk. It was the only time she could shed the identity of 'The Surgeon' and simply be a woman moving through the world. But today, the air felt thick. She stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change.

A sudden, sharp prickle climbed up the back of her neck. It was the visceral, instinctive feeling of being watched. She spun around, her eyes scanning the street. To her left, a man in a charcoal suit was reading a newspaper. To her right, a woman was walking a golden retriever. Behind her, the street stretched back into a corridor of brownstones and flickering streetlamps.

No one looked suspicious. No one was following her—at least, not in any way that was obvious. She shook her head, attributing the feeling to the lingering fatigue of the surgery. She tightened her grip on her bag and continued walking, unaware that four different vehicles were gliding silently behind her, their headlights off, their drivers coordinated in a dance of absolute surveillance. She soon reached her apartment entrance and gently unlocked it and went inside. But at the corner of street stood a black sedan with tinted windows. Inside sat Vincent in his own glory. He was following and watching Aurora the moment she stepped out of the hospital. But Aurora didn't notice that.

As soon the light were turned on in Aurora's apartment he called his men and asked. Did you install the camera and microphone as I said? Yes sir, the guard on the phone said. Vincent hung up the call and opened his laptop only for the screen to lit up with multiple live footage of Aurora's apartment.

It had the entrance, living room, kitchen and her bedroom except for the bathroom and changing room. If Vincent wanted he could have installed cameras there too but he wanted to see Aurora all vulnerable when she is under him begging him. Vincent saw Aurora freshly out of the shower, dressed in blue night pajamas, heading towards the kitchen.

For the next hours he watched Aurora dance while cooking, how she ate her dinner licking her fingers, washing the dishes. He watched her laugh while watching some series on the TV, and how tired she became, her eyes starting to droop. She walked towards her bed, half asleep, and plopped onto it, falling into a deep slumber, unaware she had caught the attention of the most feared man on earth, Vincent himself, who was so obsessed with her.

With that Vincent closed his laptop and asked his driver to drive to the mansion. He smirked, thinking that he had a lot of plans for Aurora, some plans that would take her to the moon and some plans which would make her shudder in fear.

Vincent had planned so much Aurora. That the only thing Aurora had to do was say Yes, and Vincent would treat her like a queen and make her walk on roses and stars. But if Aurora said NO, he had a plan for that too, and he would drag Aurora on roses and stars. Either way, Vincent had decided that Aurora was his.

For the next few months, the surveillance intensified. Vincent’s men became ghosts in her life. They recorded where she went, whom she met, what she bought, and every preference she voiced. They noted her favorite flowers, her comfort foods, and the exact distance she kept from her colleagues. Vincent digested this data like a predator studying the migration patterns of its prey. He believed that by knowing every fiber of her existence, it would be easy to approach her and secure her consent.

He didn't realize that such total saturation of her life would eventually leave her feeling hunted.

Aurora lived in a bubble of perceived peace, unaware of the chaos already swirling around her. She moved through her days carefree, never suspecting that she was being watched twenty-four hours all the time. She had no clue that a catastrophic storm was gathering, and its name was Vincent.

Author's Note

Hey all lovely readers,

I know this chapter is a bit short, but I promise the next chapter will be a big one! Thank you so much for sticking with the story and supporting me — I can’t wait to share what’s coming next.