Chapter 1
Virelle
“Shit… my internet sucks again.”
The screen freezes, like it’s mocking me. Like it knows I’m about to do something I promised myself I wouldn’t do again. And yet… here I am. Downloading the devil itself. Another dating app.
Why do I keep coming back to these things? Why do I search for something real in places that feel so entirely manufactured? Maybe it’s because, deep down, I crave a distraction. A spark. Anything to make my blood move. Or maybe I just want someone to look at me—really look at me—and tell me I’m exactly what they’ve been starving for.
The loading circle spins. Slow. Painfully slow. And then—finally.
I stare at my gallery, my fingers hovering over the screen. Choosing pictures shouldn’t feel this hard. Should I post the ones where my face is hidden? The safe ones? Or should I post that one photo in the red silk dress? The one that dips low, the one I only wore once because it felt too dangerous?
Screw it. I select the red dress. A few mirror selfies where my curves take up the frame. My face is half in the shadows, lips slightly parted. Safe, but suggestive.
I hit accept: interested in males.
And just like that—the notifications begin. Profiles. Faces. Names. Too many of them.
At first, it feels exciting. But hours pass. And it’s the same old exhausting routine. “What are you wearing?” “Send a pic.” “Sit on my face.”
I roll my eyes, tossing my phone onto the bed. Like that’s all I am. A piece of meat. A quick fix. It makes my skin crawl. Just when I’m about to reach over and delete the app entirely—
Ping.
A single notification. I hesitate… then tap. A random profile.
Kael.
The name feels different. Sharp. Heavy. I open his profile. He looks older than me—maybe four or five years. He’s not smiling. His jaw is locked, his eyes dark and piercing right through the camera lens. He doesn’t look innocent or soft. He looks like a bad decision waiting to happen. He looks… magnetic.
For a second, I forget to breathe. And then—a message appears. From him.
The message loads slowly. And then I read it.
“The mirror selfies are a nice tease. But they don’t do justice to the way that black skirt hugged your curves at the campus coffee shop today. You spilled a drop of vanilla latte on your thigh at 2:15 PM. It took everything in me not to walk over and clean it off for you. Snap?”
I stare at the screen. My heart slams against my ribs, loud and frantic. A hot flush of adrenaline spikes straight down my spine.
I read it again. The coffee shop. The vanilla latte. My thigh.
My breath catches in my throat. I look around my empty bedroom, suddenly hyper-aware of the shadows in the corners. He wasn’t just some random profile miles away. He was there. He saw me. He’s been watching me.
I should block him. I know I should. It’s insane. It’s crossing a line. My thumb hovers over the red ‘Block’ button.
But my skin is burning. The thought of those dark eyes watching me from across a crowded room, tracking my every move, noticing a single drop of coffee on my skin… It’s terrifying. But God, it’s intoxicating.
I bite my lip, my fingers trembling slightly. Before I can let common sense talk me out of it—before I can overthink the danger I’m inviting in—I type back.
“You should have come over. Here’s my Snap.”
I hit send. And just like that… the trap closes. Only, I’m not sure which one of us just caught the other one.
