8

Asher

Shock, unease, fear—the fleeting emotions that dance across Camila's face transform her beauty in ever-changing ways. But in an instant, she masks them behind a veneer of genuine rage, her fists clenched at her sides.

Advancing towards me, she demands, "What the hell is going on? What is all of this?"

"You'll have to be more specific," I chuckle lightly.

Furrowing her brow, she gestures towards the photos on the wall. "Have you been following me?"

"Just doing some research," I reply casually.

It's the nonchalant manner in which I deliver those words that seems to unsettle her. Camila stiffens, as though restraining an impulse to strike me. A surge of adrenaline courses through me; I enjoy provoking her, though it's neither professional nor part of the plan. Some things are beyond prediction.

She exhales sharply, her shoulders slumping. "Stop playing games. I want to know why you're doing all of this."

"I'm not playing any game, ptichka," I assert, closing the distance between us