ILIANA'S POV

I was lying in bed, restless from another sleepless night, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The darkness wrapped around my room like a heavy blanket, and the only sound was my shallow breathing. Then, a gust of cold air swept through, brushing against my skin.

A shiver ran down my spine.

I glanced toward the balcony. I couldn’t tell if the door was open or if it was just my mind playing tricks on me. I sat up to turn on the lights—but froze.

A silhouette stood in the doorway.

A man.

Tall.

Still.

Watching me.

He wore black from head to toe, a balaclava covering his face—except his eyes.

His eyes.

They were achingly familiar. I didn’t know how or why, but they made me feel something I hadn’t in years—warmth.

I couldn’t look away. Not even as he stepped closer.

He stood right in front of me while I remained on the edge of the bed, breath caught in my throat. He towered over me—broad, solid, magnetic.

Then, he reached out to touch my arm. I flinched and stood up abruptly.

His gaze locked onto mine, eyes burning with emotions I couldn’t place.

Longing.

Warmth.

Fire.

A swirl of something I didn’t understand—but couldn’t ignore.

The soft grey rings around his pupils glowed faintly in the darkness.

I’d never stared at someone like that before.

Never felt this drawn to a stranger.

With a strange gentleness, he reached out again—this time taking my hand, holding it like it meant something to him.

Like I meant something.

It felt like he’d found something precious he thought he’d lost, and now he was afraid it would slip through his fingers.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

He stared deep into my eyes, as if they held the answer he needed.

Then he spoke—his voice low, intimate.

The kind of tone that forces your heart to listen.

“Don’t you know me, Yara?”

That name.

Yara.

“I’m not... her,” I said quietly.

But before I could pull away, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around me.

He hugged me.

And I froze.

Because it felt safe.

Too safe.

I was supposed to panic. To scream. But instead, I stood there, letting a stranger hold me like we were something that had already been.

Something real.

Then I snapped out of it. I pushed him back.

“Do you even know where you are? This isn’t just any place—this is the minister’s house. If a guard sees you, they’ll shoot on sight.”

He didn’t respond.

He just… stared. Silent.

“You need to leave. Now.”

But then—a knock at the door.

My stomach dropped.

“Iliana, open the door.”

My stepbrother’s voice. Cold. Slurred.

The man looked at me with that same strange intensity—like he was silently asking, Who is that?

“I… I…” I stammered.

“Open it before I use the spare key.”

He sounded pissed. And drunk.

No.

Not again.

I slid to the floor, wedging myself into the narrow space between the bed and the side table. The man crouched beside me, concern flickering in his eyes.

The banging got louder—until another voice rang out.

“Why are you here?”

My father.

“I heard something… I thought she wasn’t alone,” my stepbrother said.

Liar.

A practiced lie, so casual it made me sick.

No one in this house knew what he did. What he tries to do.

I felt the stranger’s hand on my knee, grounding me.

“Please… just go,” I whispered, voice cracking, full of unshed tears.

“Iliana! Is someone in there?”

My father again.

“No! There’s no one,” I replied, struggling to steady my voice.

“Then open the door.”

“I’m changing.”

As the words came out of my mouth , they left but I knew better that there would be consequences for this.

Footsteps faded.

Silence returned.

I looked down and realized I was clutching the man’s hand. Hard. My nails had left marks on his skin.

I let go quickly.

Shit. I’d panicked in front of him.

His eyes still held that same warmth. But something else had joined it now—anger.

“I told you to leave. Why are you still here?” I asked.

He stood, slow and deliberate. Then, almost like magic, he pulled a single white rose from his jacket and gently tucked it behind my ear.

He leaned in and kissed my forehead.

Soft. Careful.

Then he turned and walked away—disappearing into the same darkness he came from.

He didn’t look back.

He left just like that.

When I finally moved, the rose was in my hand. Its stem was wrapped in a thin white ribbon.

And then—my phone buzzed.

One message.

"A white rose for my beautiful Yara."

That was it. No name. No number.

Just a single sentence.

But I stared at it for hours.

Something about those words pulled me in. Like I knew him. Like maybe, in some other life, I was Yara.

The rose sat quietly on my nightstand.

And the kiss on my forehead?

I could still feel it.

Funny how one small gesture could take up so much space in my heart.

Just like it used to, back when I had a stupid crush on someone who used to kiss my forehead the same way.

Like he did

Hlwr..

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