The hallway smells like coffee, sweat, and the chemical tang of studio lights that have been burning too long. I press my back against the equipment cases, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my throat. Kaelen stands a few feet away, one hand braced against the wall, watching me with those grey eyes that don't blink enough.
"You're shaking," he says.
I am. I can't stop. My hands are trembling at my sides, and I shove them into the pockets of my cardigan—the same cardigan I wore to visit Margit, the same one I've worn a hundred times to be invisible in. It doesn't work anymore.
"I'm fine." The lie comes out thin.
"No, you're not." He pushes off the wall and steps closer, close enough that I can smell him—sweat and something clean underneath, soap maybe, or just skin. "But you're going to be."
His hand lands on my shoulder, warm and heavy, and I flinch before I can stop myself. He doesn't pull back. He just looks at me, that unblinking stare, and I feel like a specimen under glass.
"Come on." He turns and pushes through the door back into Studio B without waiting to see if I follow.
I do. Of course I do. I've been following Kaelen Voss for eleven years.
The studio hits me like a wall of heat and noise. The lights are even brighter than before, baking the air, and I squint against the glare. Amanda is already on the bed—a massive thing draped in dark sheets, positioned under the lights like a centerpiece. She's wearing a silk robe, loosely tied, watching the door with the patient boredom of someone who's done this a thousand times.
When she sees me, her eyebrows lift.
"She staying?" Amanda asks, directing the question past me to Kaelen.
"She's my eyes," Kaelen says, and the words don't make sense until he grabs my arm and guides me to a rolling stool beside the monitor. He sits me down like I'm a prop, my knees pressing against the edge of the cart holding the director's screen. "If the light shifts, you tell them."
He hands me a pair of headphones. They're still warm from whoever wore them last.
I stare at them. "I don't know what I'm looking for."
"You'll know." He says it like it's fact. Like he trusts me with this. Then he steps back and shrugs off his robe.
My breath catches.
I've seen him naked before. Not in person—never in person—but I've watched his scenes. Alone, in the dark, with the volume low so no one would hear. I know the map of his body better than I know my own: the broad shoulders, the dark hair trailing down his chest, the way his hips cut in a V that makes my mouth go dry. I've memorized him from a screen, pixel by pixel, frame by frame.
Seeing him in person is different.
He's harder. Realer. Every muscle moves under his skin as he drops the robe onto a chair, and I can see the pulse in his throat, the sweat on his chest, the way his jaw tightens when he catches me looking. He's already half-hard, the length of him curving against his thigh, and I feel heat flood my face so fast it's dizzying.
I tear my gaze away. Look at the monitor. The screen shows the bed in crisp high definition, Amanda lounging, Kaelen approaching. I can see everything.
"Don't look away this time either."
His voice comes from above me, and I jerk my head up to find him standing over the stool, looking down at me. The lights catch the grey of his eyes, turning them silver.
"I—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat. "I wasn't."
"You were." He holds my gaze for a long moment, and something in his expression shifts—hunger, maybe, or satisfaction. Then he turns and walks to the bed.
Amanda says something I don't catch. She laughs, low and easy, and reaches for him. Her hand lands on his chest, slides down his stomach, closes around him. I watch her fingers wrap around his cock, watch her stroke him once, twice, watching her watch him—and I feel something twist in my chest, hot and sharp and ugly.
Jealousy. Pure, stupid jealousy.
The director calls something. The crew adjusts a light. And then they're moving, Kaelen and Amanda, bodies finding rhythm like they've done this a hundred times before—because they have. She's on her knees on the bed, and he's behind her, one hand on her hip, the other gripping her hair, and I watch him push into her on the monitor in crisp, brutal detail.
The sound hits me through the headphones. Wet. Rhythmic. The slap of skin, Amanda's moans, Kaelen's breathing—measured, controlled, nothing like the ragged gasps I imagined.
I should look away.
I don't.
I watch him fuck her. I watch his hips drive forward, watch her back arch, watch his hand tighten in her hair until her neck strains. I watch his face—blank, focused, nothing in his eyes—and I remember watching his scenes alone in the dark, imagining he was looking at me, imagining those hands in my hair, that cock inside me.
Now he's right there. And he's not looking at me.
The thought hits harder than it should. He told me I'm the only one he sees. He told me I'm seen. But he's still here, still fucking her, still performing for the camera while I sit on a stool like a prop.
The heat in my face turns cold.
Amanda makes a sound—high, breathy, practiced—and I watch her come on the monitor, her body shaking, her mouth open. Kaelen pulls out, and I see the evidence of it, slick and obscene, before he flips her onto her back and pushes into her again.
I can't breathe.
The stool is hard under me. The headphones are too warm. The monitor shows everything, every angle, every wet inch of him sliding into her, and I can't look away because he told me not to, because I'm his eyes, because I'm seen.
But I'm not. I'm just here. Watching. Like always.
The pressure builds in my chest, hot and tight, and I don't know if it's arousal or humiliation or both. My hands are shaking in my lap, gripping my own thighs so hard I'll have bruises. My cunt is wet—I can feel it, the slick heat between my legs, the pulse that won't stop—and I hate myself for it. I hate that my body responds to watching him with someone else. I hate that I'm still here.
I stand up.
The stool rolls back, screeching against the floor. No one notices—the crew is watching the monitor, the director is calling directions, and Kaelen is lost in the rhythm of the scene. I drop the headphones onto the cart and walk.
I don't run. Running would draw attention. I walk, steady and quiet, the way I've walked through every room in my life—invisible, forgettable, already gone.
The door closes behind me, and the sound of the studio cuts off like a slap.
The hallway is empty. The equipment cases are still there. I lean against the wall, my back to the cold concrete, and I press my hand to my mouth to keep from making a sound.
I don't cry. I don't let myself. I breathe, slow and deep, until the shaking stops. Then I walk to the parking lot, get in my car, and drive home.
Three weeks pass.
He stays. I see him in the house, passing through hallways, sitting in his office, eating breakfast at the counter—but he doesn't speak. Not to me. Not more than a grunt, a nod, a wordless acknowledgment that I exist in his peripheral vision and nothing more.
I tell myself nothing has changed. This is how it's always been. The kiss, the scene, the promise of being seen—it was a moment. A flicker. And now he's gone again, even though he's right there.
I busy myself with Margit.
The hospital releases her after ten days, and I drive to pick her up, help her into the car, arrange the pillows in the back seat so she's comfortable. She's pale and thinner than before, but her eyes are just as sharp, and she watches me with that knowing look that makes me feel like a child caught stealing cookies.
"You've been crying," she says, not a question.
"Allergies."
"Dagmar."
I keep my eyes on the road. "It's nothing, Margit."
She doesn't push, but I feel her gaze on me the whole drive home. When we get there, I help her into the wheelchair, settle her in the living room with a blanket and a cup of tea, and let her watch me fuss with the curtains.
"He's an idiot," she says finally.
I freeze. "What?"
"My son. He's an idiot. Always has been." She takes a sip of her tea, unruffled. "He gets it from his father. The ability to see exactly what's in front of him and still miss it completely."
I don't answer. I can't. If I open my mouth, I'll cry, and I've done enough of that in the shower where no one can hear me.
"He'll come around," Margit says. "He always does. It just takes him longer than it should."
"He doesn't need to come around," I say, and my voice sounds hollow even to me. "We're fine. It's fine."
Margit hums, noncommittal, and lets the subject drop.
I take care of her. I make her meals, help her with her exercises, drive her to physical therapy. I read to her when she's tired, and she tells me stories about Kaelen as a boy—the way he used to rescue stray cats, the way he built forts in the backyard, the way he cried at his father's funeral and never let anyone see. I file every detail away like evidence, like I'm building a case for a man I already love but don't understand.
The house is quiet. Kaelen and I pass each other like ships in the night, and I tell myself I'm used to it. I tell myself I've been invisible for eleven years. A few more weeks is nothing.
I'm lying.
The night before the story meeting, I can't sleep. I lie in my bed—our bed, technically, though he's never slept in it—and stare at the ceiling, replaying the kiss, the scene, the way he looked at me in the hallway like I was something worth seeing. I touch my lips, remembering the pressure of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble, the way his hand had curled around the back of my neck like he was claiming me.
And then nothing. Three weeks of nothing.
I roll onto my side and press my face into the pillow and wish, not for the first time, that I could stop wanting him. That I could turn it off like a switch. That I could be the cold, practical forensic analyst everyone at work thinks I am, instead of the girl who's been in love for eleven years with a man who treats her like furniture.
I fall asleep eventually. I dream of grey eyes and hands that don't let go.
I'm in the kitchen the next morning, making coffee, when he walks in.
He's wearing a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he hasn't shaved in a few days—the stubble is darker, heavier, making him look dangerous. He stops at the counter, picks up the mug I left for him without asking, and drinks.
I watch him from the corner of my eye, pretending to stir my own coffee. The spoon clinks against the ceramic, too loud in the silence.
"I have a meeting today," he says.
I blink. It's the first full sentence he's spoken to me in three weeks. "Okay."
"Story discussion. New scene." He sets the mug down and looks at me—really looks, for the first time since the studio. "I want you there."
"Why?" The word comes out before I can stop it.
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "Because I need an assistant."
"I have work."
"You're off today. I checked your calendar."
My heart stutters. He checked my calendar. "That's—" I stop, swallow. "That's invasive."
"That's efficient." He picks up his mug again and takes another sip, watching me over the rim. "Be ready in an hour."
He walks out before I can argue.
I stand in the kitchen, holding my coffee, and try to figure out what just happened. My hands are trembling again. I set the mug down before I drop it.
An hour later, I'm sitting in the passenger seat of his car, wearing the nicest blouse I own and a pair of slacks that I hope make me look professional instead of terrified. He doesn't talk during the drive. I don't either. The radio plays low, some station I don't recognize, and I watch the city blur past the window.
The meeting is at a production office downtown, a sleek building with a lobby that smells like leather and money. I follow him inside, through security, into an elevator that dings at every floor. My palms are sweating. I wipe them on my slacks.
The conference room has a long table, a whiteboard covered in scribbles, and three people already seated: a woman with a clipboard, a man with a laptop, and Amanda.
Of course. Amanda.
She looks up when we walk in, and her eyes land on me with that same mixture of curiosity and something else. "Didn't think you'd be back," she says. Not hostile. Just factual.
I open my mouth to answer, but Kaelen speaks first.
"She's my wife." His voice cuts through the room, flat and final. "And my assistant. She'll be at all meetings from now on."
The room goes quiet.
The woman with the clipboard—Maya, I learn later, the director—glances at me with new interest. The man with the laptop just nods, already typing. Amanda leans back in her chair, a slow smile spreading across her face.
"Well," she says, drawing the word out. "Guess the Animal's finally been tamed."
Kaelen doesn't answer. He just pulls out a chair for me—pulls it out, waits for me to sit, and pushes it in when I do.
I feel every eye in the room on me. My face is burning. I can feel the flush spreading from my chest to my cheeks, and I know I'm the color of a tomato, and I can't do anything about it.
The story discussion blurs past me. I hear words—"angles," "narrative arc," "climax buildup"—but they don't stick. I'm too aware of Kaelen beside me, his arm brushing mine when he reaches for a pen, his knee bumping mine under the table. He doesn't pull away. Neither do I.
When the meeting ends, Amanda stops by my chair on the way out. She leans down, her voice low, meant only for me.
"He's never brought anyone to a story meeting before." She pauses, her eyes searching mine. "Not in six years."
Then she walks out, leaving me sitting there, my heart hammering, my hands gripping the armrests like I'm about to fall.
Kaelen is still talking to Maya. I watch his hands as he gestures, strong and certain, and I think about those hands on me. In the hallway. In the kitchen. In every dream I've ever had.
He catches me staring. His eyes meet mine, and something passes between us—a current, a charge, a promise I don't understand.
"Dagmar." My name in his mouth sounds like a commandment. "Let's go."
I stand. I follow.
I've been following Kaelen Voss for eleven years. But this time, for the first time, I think he's actually leading me somewhere.
We walk out of the conference room together, his hand brushing the small of my back so briefly I might have imagined it. The touch leaves a trail of heat through my blouse, and I'm acutely aware of every inch of skin between my shoulder blades and my waist, hypersensitive, waiting for contact that doesn't come.
The hallway is white and sterile, lined with doors that all look the same. Kaelen walks ahead of me now, his strides long, eating up the polished floor. I follow, my heels clicking an uneven rhythm against his steady pace. We reach the elevator bank. He presses the call button without looking at me.
The doors slide open. He steps inside. I follow.
The elevator is small. Too small. The walls are mirrors—three of them, reflecting me back at myself from every angle. I see my own flushed face, the collar of my blouse slightly crooked, the way my hands are clasped too tightly in front of me. And behind me, Kaelen.
The doors close.
The car begins to descend.
And then he moves.
One step. Two. His body presses into my back, his chest against my shoulder blades, his breath hot against the crown of my head. I freeze. My hands go still. I can smell him—soap, coffee, something metallic and male. His palms land on the mirror on either side of my head, caging me in.
"You ran," he says, his voice low, barely a murmur against my hair.
My heart slams against my ribs. "I—"
"In the studio. You ran." His chest brushes my back with every word. "I told you to stay."
"You were busy." The words come out thin, high. "You were—"
"I was performing." His mouth is at my ear now. I feel the heat of it, the scrape of his stubble against the sensitive skin behind my lobe. "For you. I told you that. You were the only one I was seeing."
I can't breathe. The elevator is airless, spinning. The reflection in the mirror shows me a woman I barely recognize—eyes too wide, mouth parted, flush crawling down her neck. And behind her, the Animal, solid and dark, his grey eyes fixed on our reflection, watching me watch him watch me.
"I know." My voice is barely a whisper. "I know you said that. But watching you—watching you with someone else—"
"What?" He leans closer, and his lips brush the shell of my ear. "What did it feel like?"
I squeeze my eyes shut. "Like dying. Like being erased."
He goes still.
The elevator hums. The floor numbers tick down. 8. 7. 6.
Then his hand leaves the mirror, and his fingers find my chin, turning my face to the side. I open my eyes. He's so close I can see the flecks of silver in his irises, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his pupils have expanded until there's almost no grey left.
"Good," he says.
The word hits me like a slap.
I blink. "What?"
"Good." He says it again, slower, tasting the word. "You felt it. That's what I needed you to feel." His thumb traces my jaw, featherlight, and I shiver despite the heat. "Because that's what I've been feeling for eleven years. Every time your father called. Every time your sister threw herself at me at a dinner. Every time I saw you in my house, in my space, and knew you were there because of a debt, not because you wanted to be."
"That's not—"
"I know." His voice drops, rough, almost raw. "I know now. Margit told me. About your father. About the company." He pauses, and something flickers in his eyes—regret, maybe, or guilt. "I didn't know. I thought you chose this. Chose me because your father pushed you into it. Because you were his favorite, his bargaining chip."
I shake my head, barely a movement. "I was never his favorite."
"I know that now." His hand slides from my chin to my neck, cupping the curve of it, his thumb resting against my pulse. I feel it jumping under his touch, frantic. "I know you were sold. And I know you stayed anyway."
My eyes sting. I blink hard, refusing to cry. Not here. Not in front of him.
"I'm sorry." The words come out rough, like they cost him something. "For the three weeks. For the silence. I didn't know what to do with what I felt."
The elevator dings. Lobby.
The doors slide open. I see the marble floor, the leather chairs, the receptionist looking up.
But the doors stay open, and Kaelen doesn't move. His hand is still on my neck. His body is still pressed against mine. Anyone can see us now—the receptionist, the security guard, the man walking past with a briefcase. My face burns.
"You're going to head logistics for the next shoot," he says, his voice back to that flat, commanding tone. "Schedule, locations, crew coordination. You'll report directly to me."
I stare at him. "I'm a forensic analyst."
"You're my wife. And you're my assistant. And you're going to learn this." He says it like it's non-negotiable, and I feel a flicker of something—anger, maybe, or just the last shred of pride. "I don't have a choice in this?"
"You always have a choice." His eyes lock onto mine. "You just never take it."
He steps back. The absence of his body against mine is like a cold wind. He straightens his collar, adjusts his cuffs, and becomes the Animal again—distant, untouchable, a man who just gave an order and expects it to be followed.
"I'll send you the details tonight," he says, and walks out of the elevator.
I stand there, frozen, my neck still warm from his hand, my pulse still hammering. The receptionist is watching me. I force myself to move, to step out of the elevator, to follow him across the lobby like a trained dog.
He doesn't wait. He doesn't look back. The car is already at the curb, engine running, and he slides into the passenger seat without holding the door for me.
I get in the back. The drive home is silent.
-
Two days pass.
I throw myself into the logistics work. It's not hard—scheduling, permits, equipment rentals. I'm good at organizing chaos. It's what I do at work, sorting through crime scene data, building timelines, finding patterns in the mess. The shoot is a week out, and I've already got the location locked, the crew confirmed, the permits filed.
I send Kaelen updates. He responds with one-word replies. Good. Fine. Yes.
No warmth. No acknowledgement of what happened in the elevator. He's gone again, even though he sits across from me at dinner every night, eating in silence while Margit fills the air with gentle conversation.
I tell myself it doesn't matter. I tell myself I'm used to it.
I'm lying.
On the third day, I'm at work—my real work, the forensic lab on the fourth floor of the county building. I'm at my desk, staring at a set of blood spatter photos, trying to reconstruct the angle of impact. It's quiet. The fluorescent lights hum. The coffee is stale. I'm in my element.
And then the door opens.
I look up, expecting a colleague, and my heart stops.
Kaelen Voss is standing in the doorway of my lab.
He's wearing a dark suit, a tie, polished shoes. He looks like he belongs in a boardroom, not a forensics lab. Behind him, Amanda leans against the doorframe, dressed in jeans and a slouchy sweater, looking around with open curiosity.
"We need your expertise," Kaelen says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
I stand up so fast my chair rolls back and hits the wall. "What—what are you doing here?"
"We're scouting for the next scene." He walks past me, surveying the lab. The stainless steel tables. The evidence lockers. The whiteboards covered in notes and timelines. "Crime thriller. We want to get the details right."
Amanda drifts in, her eyes landing on my desk. She picks up a photo—the blood spatter—and studies it with the same calm interest she showed on the bed. "This is your real job? You analyze murders?"
"Yes." My voice sounds faint. I clear my throat. "Yes, I'm a forensic analyst."
"So you know how to kill someone and not get caught." She says it lightly, almost teasing.
"I know how to make sure they do get caught." I meet her eyes, and something flickers there—respect, maybe. Or amusement.
Kaelen stops in front of a whiteboard covered in my handwriting. Case notes. Times of death. Victim profiles. He studies it like it's a script, his head tilted, his eyes scanning. "Walk me through this."
I blink. "What?"
"This case." He gestures at the whiteboard. "Walk me through how the murder happened."
I look at Amanda. She shrugs, a small smile playing at her lips. "He's serious. He wants authenticity."
My mouth is dry. I walk over to the whiteboard, my hands trembling slightly. I grip the marker to steady them, but I'm acutely aware of Kaelen's presence behind me, the weight of his gaze, the memory of his hand on my neck in the elevator.
"Okay," I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel. "Victim was a 42-year-old male. Found in his apartment. Cause of death was exsanguination from a single stab wound to the femoral artery." I draw a quick diagram on the board. "The angle of entry suggests the attacker was shorter than the victim. The lack of defensive wounds suggests the victim didn't see it coming—either he knew the attacker, or he was taken by surprise."
"How do you know he didn't see it coming?" Amanda asks, leaning forward.
I point to the photos. "No cuts on his hands or forearms. If he'd tried to defend himself, he'd have wounds from grabbing the blade or blocking. There's nothing. He was standing still when the blade went in."
"So he trusted the killer." Kaelen's voice comes from right behind me. I didn't hear him move. He's so close I can feel the heat of his body, and the marker stutters in my hand. "He let them close."
"Yes." I don't turn around. If I turn around, I'll be face to face with him, and I'll lose my train of thought. "The killer probably approached from the front, maybe with an excuse—neighbor needing sugar, a colleague with a question, a lover. Close enough to reach the femoral artery, then a single upward thrust."
"And the blood spatter?" His hand reaches past me, pointing to a photo on the board. His arm brushes mine. I feel it like a burn.
I swallow. "The spatter pattern suggests the killer stepped back immediately, avoiding the arterial spray. That's deliberate. Someone who knew what they were doing. Not a crime of passion."
"So premeditated."
"Yes."
The room is silent. I can feel both of them looking at me—Amanda with curiosity, Kaelen with something else. Something hungrier.
"You're good at this," Amanda says. "Really."
I shrug, uncomfortable. "It's my job."
Kaelen steps back, and I finally turn around. He's watching me with those grey eyes, unblinking, reading me like I'm one of his scripts. I feel exposed. Seen. Like he's cataloging every twitch, every breath, every flush climbing up my neck.
"We should go," he says, but he doesn't move.
Amanda does. She walks over to my desk, picks up a sticky note, and scribbles something. Then she pulls a small folded top from her bag—black, silk, the kind of thing that costs more than I make in a week—and presses it into my hand.
"For the shoot," she says, and winks. "Wear it. You'll thank me later."
I stare at the silk in my hands. It's soft. Slippery. I can already imagine how it would feel against my skin.
Kaelen is at the door. He looks back at me, his expression unreadable. "Dagmar."
I look up.
"Good work on the logistics."
Then he's gone. Amanda follows, tossing a wave over her shoulder.
The door swings shut.
I stand alone in my lab, holding a silk top that smells like her perfume, my heart pounding, my hands shaking. The marker is still clutched in my other hand. I set it down carefully, as if it might break.
I have no idea what just happened. But I know one thing for certain: these people are going to drive me insane.
And I'm not sure I want to be saved.