Chapter Seven
His Turn
She had no idea what she'd stepped into.
Hazel.
He hadn't meant to learn her name.
But the universe had offered it to him anyway—on a receipt, a whispered goodbye
to a colleague, a soft greeting as she entered that club the first night. Hazel.
Sweet, unsuspecting Hazel, with that curious smile and those eyes that saw more
than he wanted her to.
She wasn't supposed to be involved. She wasn't supposed to mean anything.
And yet, now, she was the only thing keeping him grounded.
He sat alone in the penthouse he rarely called home, the lights of the city
shimmering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
His scotch remained untouched, the ice melting slowly in the glass.
The television was on, but silent—he hadn't heard a word of it.
All he could hear was her voice echoing in his mind.
"I want to believe you… but I don't know what's real with you."
He hadn't answered her. Not fully.
Because if he started telling the truth, he wouldn't be able to stop.
And the truth was dangerous.
For her.
For him.
For everyone.
He rose and walked to the wall safe tucked behind a minimalist art piece.
The lock clicked open with a mechanical sigh, revealing what he hadn't touched in
weeks: a matte-black pistol and a thick file folder, worn at the corners.
The file was labeled in careful handwriting: LIAM HART.
He dropped it on the coffee table and flipped it open.
Inside: Photos. Surveillance logs. Clippings. Evidence.
One image stopped him cold: Liam standing across from Hazel's apartment
building, half-hidden in shadow, watching.
The timestamp read two days ago.
Another showed him outside the gallery the night they kissed beneath the abstract
lights, oblivious to the eyes that had followed them there.
Liam was closing in.
And Hazel had no idea.
They hadn't seen each other in years, but the history was carved deep into him—into both of them.
Liam had once been a friend. A brother in all but blood.
But grief had a way of reshaping men, and Liam hadn't just broken.
He had twisted. Hardened. Become someone unrecognizable.
And now?
Now he was obsessed.
Because Hazel looked like her.
Emily.
The woman Liam had lost.
The woman they'd both lost, in different ways.
She'd died, Liam always believed else's was someone fault.
Namely: his.
Hazel didn't know it, but she was standing in the middle of a battlefield.
One with old bloodstains and no clear lines.
At first, he told himself the pull he felt toward her was coincidence. Lust.
Curiosity. But the more he spoke with her, the more he touched her—the more he felt—he knew better.
She was nothing like Emily. Not truly. Hazel was warmer, sharper.
She challenged him. Saw through him in ways Emily never had.
But the resemblance was enough to set Liam off.
Enough to trigger something feral.
That's why Liam had started showing up again.
That's why the notes had resumed. The warnings. The watching.
Hazel had become his new obsession.
His phone buzzed.
Blocked number. Of course.
He opened the message with slow, steady fingers.
She smiles like her, too.
The glass in his hand cracked.
He hadn't even realized he was gripping it that tightly. Ice hit the floor with a soft clink.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
He knew what Liam was doing. This wasn't just stalking. This was bait.
Hazel wasn't the only one being watched.
He was, too.
He sent a text without thinking:
If anything feels off tonight, don't go home. Call me first. No questions. Just do it.
He didn't wait for a reply.
Instead, he grabbed his coat and the file, tucking the gun inside with grim finality.
There was no more time to be cautious.
No more time to keep Hazel in the dark.
If he didn't act now, she'd get caught in the fire Liam was so desperate to reignite.
And this time, she might not survive it.