Chapter 1

The clock ticks relentlessly, each metallic click ricocheting off the dark walls, grating against my already frayed nerves. It’s out of sync with my heartbeat, which thumps unevenly—harder and faster than normal, but not frantic. There’s a tension in my chest, a heaviness that I can’t shake as I sit here, waiting. My supposed best friend’s office feels like a stranger’s lair, foreign and uninviting.

I exhale quietly, trying to calm the jittery rhythm of my breaths, but it’s a losing battle. My gaze roams the room, dissecting every detail, scrutinizing corners that once held memories—fun, embarrassing, even painful. This space used to feel alive, like a reflection of Rowan himself. Bright. Warm. Open. Now, it feels like a mausoleum, cold and sterile, drained of the life that once coursed through it.

The walls are dark, almost oppressive, their muted tones casting shadows that seem to shift with the flickering light overhead. There’s a heaviness in the air, like grief painted into every surface. The room feels haunted—not by ghosts, but by emotions too overwhelming to ignore. It’s as if Rowan has poured his turmoil into this space, creating a fortress of his pain.

And then there’s the scent.

The air is rich with the unmistakable notes of orchid, plum, and amber, a fragrance so unlike him that it sets every nerve in my body on edge. Rowan hated florals, especially anything sweet or cloying. His spaces always carried the crisp, clean scent of neroli, grapefruit, and cedarwood. 

This scent doesn’t belong here.

I close my eyes briefly, rubbing my chest as my heart accelerates again. The plum and orchid cling to the back of my throat, their sweetness suffocating, almost taunting. My pulse quickens, and I force myself to breathe deeply, willing the tightness in my chest to loosen.

Relax. Don’t jump to conclusions.

People change. Time changes them. I’ve changed in the three years we’ve been apart. Why wouldn’t Rowan? Maybe this shift in scent, in decor, in atmosphere, is just another layer of his evolution. A small, rational part of me clings to that explanation, but the larger, more restless part can’t let go of the unease spreading through me like a slow poison.

The clock’s ticking grows louder, its rhythmic taunt competing with the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears. How long have I been sitting here? One hour? Two? The Rowan I knew would never make me wait like this. He’d never keep me in limbo, especially not after making me fight for days just to secure an appointment.

My lips press into a thin line, the pressure barely containing my growing frustration. Memories of him rushing toward me with a grin flash through my mind. That was Rowan—effortlessly warm, always eager to see me. Not this ghost who remains out of reach, hidden behind closed doors.

The tension in my chest sharpens into something closer to anger. I bite back the thought threatening to escape, I hate this. I hate how distant he’s become. How… unfamiliar.

The sound of heavy footsteps suddenly echoes from the hallway, cutting through the oppressive silence. My head snaps up, and my pulse stumbles as I strain to listen. The rhythm is firm and deliberate, each step carrying an authority that feels both familiar and alien. The steady thud is accompanied by the sharp clack of hurried heels, faster, lighter, as if the person wearing them is trying to catch up.

Then, a woman’s voice cuts through the air, rattling off schedules with the precision of someone used to following orders. The cadence of her words is quick, clipped, and chased by the faint rustle of papers.

The footsteps grow louder, closer, resonating against the glass-like floor with a weight that seems to settle in my gut. My heart skips, my skin prickling with anticipation and an edge of dread. My palms are damp, the cold sweat making my fingers curl into fists against my thighs. Dread crawls across my forehead, prickling my skin as I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will my emotions into submission. I have to calm down. I need to confirm it first—confirm if the rumors are true.

Is Rowan, my kind-hearted best friend, truly a demon now? Have I been cut off like the others?

The doors creak open slowly, the sound groaning through the heavy silence, and her voice floods the room. I inhale sharply, the scent of plum and orchid mingling with the faint bitterness of ink and leather, grounding me just enough to lift my head. My heart twists painfully as my gaze locks onto him.

Rowan.

He stands frozen in the doorway, his pale face stark against the shadows of the dim hallway behind him. His expression is one of shock, his eyes wide, his lips parted as though he’s seen a ghost. The sight sends a ripple of emotion through me—relief, sadness, confusion.

It’s been three years.

Three and a half years since I left for the temple he insisted on. Three years since we last saw each other. And yet, he looks at me now like he didn’t expect me to return at all. Like he thought I’d disappeared from his world forever.

Did he think I was dead?

My chest tightens as my mind replays the past. I was dying. The illness was suffocating me, robbing me of my strength, of hope, until Rowan found the temple. A sanctuary hidden in the mountains, the place he swore would save my life. And it did.

If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here.

I owe Rowan everything, but now, standing here, I don’t recognize the man I once trusted with my life. His face is the same, but the warmth is gone, replaced by something cold and distant. He’s staring at me like I’m a stranger—or worse, an intruder.

The rumors rush back into my mind. The prodigal twin, Kassian, returned only to die in Rowan’s place. The grief that hollowed him out. The whispers of him turning into something darker, something unrecognizable. A demon.

Grief changes people, I know that, but this… this feels like more than change. It feels like erasure. Three years without a single response to my letters. Three years of silence. And now this?

My jaw tightens, and I force a smile, but it feels strained, brittle. My fingers dig into my thighs as I hold my emotions back. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Rowan,” I say, my voice light but sharp.

He flinches, the tremor in his body faint but noticeable.

“Why do you look so surprised when you knew I was coming?” I press, my brows knitting together as I study him. His broad shoulders are tense, his breaths shallow.

What’s wrong with him?

“Roe?” I try again, using his nickname, hoping it’ll pull him out of whatever daze he’s in. But instead of answering, he glances over his shoulder, his movements jerky, uncertain. He looks like he’s debating whether to retreat or step inside, and the sight sends a pang of hurt through me.

I stand, the legs of the chair scraping loudly against the floor as I push it back. The sound jolts through the room, breaking the tense silence. “Rowan?” I take a hesitant step toward him, concern and frustration warring inside me.

His hand shoots up, palm out, halting me in my tracks. The gesture is sharp, almost desperate, as if he’s trying to keep a barrier between us.

“Rowan, what’s—”

“Stop,” he chokes out, his voice strained. His other hand clamps over his nose, and his body shudders visibly, as though fighting something unseen.

The air feels heavier, thicker, and my pulse quickens as I stare at him. His entire frame trembles, his breaths uneven. The room, once filled with the scent of plum, amber and orchid, now feels suffocating.

“Rowan, what’s wrong?” I ask again, my voice softer this time, laced with worry.

But he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at me.

Instead, he stands there, quaking, disturbed beyond anything I’ve ever seen from him before. The man who used to radiate calm and confidence now seems as fragile as a house of cards, ready to collapse under the weight of whatever he’s feeling.

His secretary seems to take his silence as a signal. Without a word, she turns on her heels and walks briskly out of the office, her sharp footsteps fading into the hallway. The soft click of her heels fades, leaving us in silence, a silence that feels heavy, charged with something unspoken.

I remain standing, frozen in place. My stomach twists with a mix of nervousness, irritation, and something deeper—an unsettling sense of wrongness I can’t shake. Rowan finally speaks, his voice cutting through the silence.

“Give me a minute,” he says softly, the sound smooth and unexpectedly gentle, sending a shiver down my spine.

My brows knit in confusion. Rowan’s voice was never like this—soft, silky, like honey wrapped in velvet. It’s unnerving. I search his face for answers, but all I find are more questions. And then there’s the ring.

My eyes flicker to his hands, and the absence of the familiar silver band on his finger punches me in the chest. That ring was everything to him, his mother’s keepsake, a piece of her memory he swore he’d never part with.

“Where’s your ring?” I ask, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Rowan doesn’t answer. Instead, he straightens, his back taut like a bowstring as he lowers his hand from his face. My breath catches.

He looks different.