Chapter 1
Chapter 1: The Locked Drawer
Vanessa hated the way the house smelled now.
Like sandalwood and expensive cologne—like him.
Carter Anderson had only been living with them for three weeks, but already, his presence clung to everything. His leather briefcase by the door. His half-empty whiskey glasses left on the counter. The low timbre of his voice vibrating through the walls when he spoke to her mother in that way—smooth, commanding, irresistible.
Vanessa’s mother had never stood a chance.
She pressed her ear to her bedroom door, listening as their laughter drifted down the hall. Carter had cooked dinner again, something fancy with wine, something that made her mother giggle like a schoolgirl. Vanessa had pushed her food around her plate, hyperaware of the way Carter’s gaze kept flickering to her, lingering just a second too long.
“You’re quiet tonight, Vanessa.”
His voice had been a velvet stroke against her skin. She’d mumbled something about homework and fled.
Now, the house was quiet. Her mother had gone to bed hours ago, and Carter...
Vanessa’s breath hitched.
Where was he?
She crept into the hallway, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. The guest room—his room—was at the end of the hall, the door slightly ajar. A sliver of golden light spilled onto the floor.
Her pulse hammered.
He’s still awake.
She shouldn’t go in.
She definitely shouldn’t go in.
But curiosity had always been her downfall.
Vanessa pushed the door open just enough to slip inside.
The room smelled like him—dark, intoxicating. The bed was neatly made, untouched. A half-empty glass of amber liquid sat on the nightstand. And on the desk...
Her stomach twisted.
A sleek black laptop. A stack of papers. And a drawer.
A locked drawer.
Vanessa bit her lip. She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t.
But her fingers were already tugging at the handle.
It didn’t budge.
She exhaled sharply, frustration prickling under her skin. There was a paperclip on the desk. Without thinking, she straightened it, her hands trembling as she bent the metal and slid it into the lock.
A soft click.
The drawer slid open.
And Vanessa’s blood turned to ice.
Photos.
Of her.
Her walking to campus, her backpack slung over one shoulder.
Her at the coffee shop, her lips wrapped around a straw.
Her in her bedroom window, bathed in moonlight, unaware.
And at the bottom of the pile—a single Polaroid, fresh enough that the chemical scent still clung to it.
Vanessa in her pajamas last night, asleep.
A choked noise escaped her throat.
Oh God.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Vanessa whirled around.
Carter stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the frame. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His dark eyes locked onto hers—not surprised, not angry.
Amused.
“Vanessa,” he murmured, stepping forward. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
She stumbled back, her legs hitting the desk.
Carter smiled.
And then he closed the door behind him.
