Chapter 1
Imani
Do you know why I moved to a new city?
Because the men in my last one vanished before the second date.
I’ve always been busy—too busy for games or halfhearted flirting. But now? I finally have time. And I’m ready. Ready for something real. Ready for a boyfriend.
As I step outside my new house, the sun slaps my skin with its fierce, blazing heat. The kind that clings to you like a second skin. I wince. Gardening isn’t really my thing, and I’m not equipped to battle weeds or deal with landscaping. Still, I try.
But then—
My jaw drops.
Oh my God.
I snap my mouth shut before I embarrass myself.
I didn’t even need to see his face. The man next door is… wow. Tall. Broad. His t-shirt hugs his back like it was sewn there—shoulders wide, posture confident. Even from behind, he’s sinfully attractive.
I force myself to look away and head to the other side of my house. A scattered mess of dry leaves catches my eye, so I grab the rake leaning against the wall and begin sweeping them into a pile. Some stubborn ones flutter away like they’re mocking me.
Time slips away while music pumps through my headphones, the beat syncing with the rhythm of my sweeping. I don’t realize the sun has set until the sky glows deep orange.
After dumping the leaves in the trash, I walk to the garage to put the rake back. I unlace my boots at the door and finally step inside. A smile tugs at my lips as I replay the image of the hot neighbour in my mind.
Maybe—just maybe—fate brought me here for more than sunshine.
Covered in sweat and dust, I head to my bedroom for a quick shower before dinner.
Memories of my old city start to swirl in. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. I’d lived there for five years, ever since I began lecturing. Teaching opened the door to my true passion—writing. I wrote my first book during my second year, and when it got published, I left academia behind to become a full-time author.
This city feels bigger, warmer, fuller of possibilities. Maybe more men mean more chances to find someone special. Though, realistically, I do spend most of my time either reading in the library or writing at home—which isn’t exactly prime dating territory.
That’s what dating apps are for, right?
When your pictures are fire and your profile hits the right note, DMs flood in. I had a hundred messages in my inbox within a week.
But back in my old city?
Nightmare.
The first guy looked nothing like his pictures. The second was a wannabe rapper who couldn’t stop rhyming. The third asked for money before we even made it to dinner. The fourth though… he was different.
He matched his profile. Great career. Killer smile. Those satin-grey eyes? God. When I met him in person, I forgot how to breathe. His voice was deep, commanding, the kind that lingers in your ears even after he stops talking.
We had chemistry. We laughed. Talked for hours. It was the best date I’d had in years.
He messaged me the moment I got home, already planning the second date.
I was over the moon.
We agreed he’d pick me up. I got ready early. I waited.
Ten minutes passed. I opened the app to check in.
And just like that… he was gone. Profile deleted. Blocked. Vanished.
And he wasn’t the last.
After another string of disappearing acts, I gave up. Deleted the app. Two months later, I packed my bags and moved here. I needed a clean slate. The weather helped seal the deal.
I sigh as I step under the shower. The water pressure is underwhelming—definitely not the “spa-like luxury” the real estate agent promised—but it’s warm, and it relaxes me.
I wash my hair, feeling the dust rinse down the drain. Starving, I towel my head, throw on a robe, and head to the kitchen.
Cooking isn’t my thing, but I manage.
I reheat some fried chicken and throw a few things together. I consider making eggs—I love eggs—but I’m too tired to go through the effort.
As I walk to the sofa with my plate, the image of my neighbour flashes in my mind again. I resist the urge to peek out the window.
But then I remember the wine.
I leap up, grab the bottle and a glass, and return to the sofa.
Halfway through dinner, I choke on a bite. I cough, reaching for the wine, pour a full glass, and gulp it down. Once. Twice.
The food gone and dishes done, I collapse on the sofa, exhausted.
__
A loud thud jolts me awake.
I blink. It’s dark. The sound came from outside—my neighbour’s house.
I hate nighttime noise. That’s when I do most of my writing. The thuds send a shiver up my spine.
I creep toward the window, slowly part the curtain, and peek through the crack. I see nothing.
Still uneasy, I tiptoe to my bedroom. But before I reach the door—
Another thud.
A scream escapes my throat, and I slap a hand over my mouth. My heart sprints.
I throw myself inside and lock the door behind me, back pressed against it. The noise stops. Silence returns.
But I’m sweating, and this duvet is too thick. I decide to switch it out for sheets.
Reaching into the top of my closet, I wince as the zipper of a dress scratches my arm. Nothing serious.
I pull the sheets from their bag and toss the duvet onto the floor. That’s when I see it.
Just a glimpse.
But it’s enough.
My whole body freezes. My hair stands on end. A chill shoots through me.
No. No. Please, no.
I take a shaky step, breathing hard. I have to check.
Breathe, Imani. It’s not a ladybug. It’s not.
My fingertips tingle as I inch toward the pillow.
I reach with one trembling hand. Swiftly lift the pillow—
And scream.
Full-volume, unfiltered panic. I bolt from the room, heart pounding in my ears. I barely register that I’m at the front door, hands shaking, breath shallow.
I can’t feel my legs.
I can’t feel anything but fear.
A knock on the door startles me so badly I scream again.
“Who—who are you?” I stammer.
“It’s your neighbour. I heard you scream.”
My neighbour?
Oh no.
I peek through the peephole.
Holy. Shit.
Those icy blue eyes.
Ozan.
My knees nearly give out.
He’s standing there like a damn movie scene—broad, imposing, and completely calm. My panic stutters.
I open the door.
And forget the ladybug.
Forget my fear.
Because Ozan Alev is standing in front of me.
He looks… different. The hair, now shoulder-length. The body, more muscular. He’s still in the black, dusty jeans and tight t-shirt from earlier, arms thick with veins and strength.
“Miss Sky?” he says, a hint of concern in his voice.
Oh god. He remembers me.
I mutter his name, dry as sandpaper. “Ozan?”
He steps inside. I let him.
“What happened? Are you okay?”
I can’t meet his eyes. I wrap my arms around myself. “There’s… a ladybug. In my bedroom.”
He blinks. Then nods. “May I take a look?”
I nod, mortified.
He turns and heads upstairs.
I watch him go, noticing the tattoo on his arm—a snake coiled around a skull. His shirt sleeves ride up as he jogs up the steps, hair swaying.
Ozan Alev. My former student.
Back when I taught English Literature, he was the quiet one. Mysterious. Polite. Never caused trouble but always stood out. His writing? Exceptional. And his voice during presentations? Smooth. Confident.
Now it’s deep. Masculine. Edged with grit.
And he’s still young.
Too young.
I remind myself of my rule: no men younger than me.
He reappears upstairs. “Found one. Doesn’t seem like there are others.”
“Don’t show me,” I blurt. “And… thank you.”
He nods and turns to leave.
“Do you… get them too?” I ask, voice small.
“No. Probably came in from your yard. It was messy.”
Fair enough.
We head downstairs. He waves. I wave back.
Door closes.
I lock it.
“Ozan Alev is my neighbour?” I whisper.
Still stunned, I creep upstairs with hesitation. My bedroom door is open.
And—
My bed is made.
My sheets are on. The duvet is folded and left neatly on the floor.
He did that?
I chuckle, shaking my head in disbelief. I pack the duvet away and toss it on top of the closet.
I have to thank him tomorrow. Something nice. I’ll think about it in the morning.
For now, I just want sleep. After brushing my teeth. Hopefully… no ladybugs in the bathroom.
Another gasp.
He fixed the broken doorknob.
I smile.
A flutter moves in my stomach.
