Chapter 1

Emma's POV

Three months. That's how long I'd been rattling around this empty house since Dad's funeral.

I stood in his study, staring at the trust fund documents spread across his desk. Three million dollars. The lawyers kept saying I was "set for life," like money could fill the silence that pressed against my ears every single day.

I picked up his favorite whiskey glass, still sitting where he'd left it. My throat tightened. I set it down and walked to the window overlooking the pool. The water was so still it looked like glass. Everything in this house was still. Including me.

I was twenty-eight years old, and I felt like I was barely breathing.

That's when I decided. I needed to feel something. Anything.

I pulled out my phone and searched for personal trainers in Beverly Hills. The top result had five stars and a face that made me pause mid-scroll. Dominic Stone. The reviews called him "life-changing" and "intense."

I booked a session before I could change my mind.

The doorbell rang at exactly 10 AM two days later. I'd been awake since six, changing clothes three times, telling myself this was just about fitness. My hand trembled slightly as I reached for the doorknob.

The door swung open, and my breath caught.

He was taller than I expected. Six-two at least, with shoulders that filled the doorframe. His skin was the color of caramel, his dark hair cut close, and his eyes were the kind of brown that looked almost black in the morning light. He wore a tight black t-shirt that left nothing to the imagination.

"Emma Carter?" His voice was deep, with a slight roughness that made my stomach flip.

"That's me." I managed to sound normal, even though my heart was pounding.

He extended his hand. "Dominic Stone."

His palm was warm and rough with calluses. The handshake lasted maybe three seconds, but I felt it everywhere. A jolt of electricity that ran from my fingertips straight down to my core. I hadn't felt anything like that in... God, I couldn't even remember.

"Come in," I said, stepping back. He walked past me, and I caught his scent—something clean and masculine that made me want to lean closer.

He surveyed the house with an appreciative nod, then turned those dark eyes on me. "So, what are your goals?"

I almost laughed. My goals? To feel alive again. To have someone touch me. To stop being so fucking lonely.

"I want to get stronger," I said instead.

His lips curved into a slight smile. "We can definitely do that."

The home gym was on the first floor, all mirrors and state-of-the-art equipment that I'd barely used. Dominic walked around, testing machines, while I tried not to stare at the way his muscles moved under his shirt.

"Let's start with squats," he said. "I need to see your form."

He positioned himself behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. His hands came to rest lightly on my waist.

"Feet shoulder-width apart," he instructed. "Now, I'm going to guide you down."

His hands pressed gently on my hips as I lowered into the squat. His breath tickled the back of my neck. My legs started shaking, and it had nothing to do with the exercise.

"Good," he murmured. "But you need to push your hips back more. Like this."

His hands moved to my hip bones, pulling me back against him. For one heartbeat, my body was pressed entirely against his. I felt everything—his hard chest, his thighs, and oh God, something else that made my knees weak.

"Perfect," he said, his voice slightly rougher. "Hold it there."

I couldn't have moved if I wanted to. Three months of numbness evaporated in an instant, replaced by liquid heat that pooled low in my belly.

We moved through the workout in a blur. Every exercise involved his hands on some part of my body. Spotting me during lunges, his palms on my shoulders. Correcting my plank position, his fingers pressing into my lower back. Stretching my hamstrings, his chest pressing against mine as he pushed my leg toward my head.

By the time we got to the final stretch, I was trembling. Not from exhaustion—from want.

"Lie on your back," he said, grabbing a mat.

I obeyed, my heart racing. He knelt beside me, lifting one of my legs. His hands wrapped around my calf as he pushed it toward my chest, stretching my hip flexor.

"Breathe," he said, but his own breathing had changed. Faster. Heavier.

He moved to the other leg, but this time, his body shifted. He was kneeling between my thighs now, pushing my leg up. His face was inches from mine. I could see a vein pulsing in his neck. His eyes locked on mine.

Neither of us moved. The air felt thick, electric.

Then his gaze dropped to my mouth. Lingered there for three seconds that felt like hours.

He released my leg and stood up abruptly. "Good session. You did great."

His voice was controlled, professional. But I saw the bulge in his athletic shorts before he turned away.

"I need to use your bathroom," he said, already walking toward the door I'd pointed out earlier.

"Sure," I managed to say.

The second he left, I scrambled to my feet and practically ran to the changing room. My hands were shaking as I locked the door behind me. I caught sight of myself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, wild eyes, chest heaving.

Three months. Three months of feeling dead inside, and now I was burning alive.

I couldn't help it. My hand slid down my stomach, into my shorts. I bit my lip to keep quiet, but a small sound escaped anyway—half gasp, half moan.

Then I saw it. A shadow under the door. A sliver of space where the door didn't quite meet the frame.

And through it, an eye. Dark. Intense. Watching me.

Our gazes locked through that tiny gap. He'd been listening. Watching. And he wasn't moving away.

Shame flooded through me, hot and sharp. But underneath it was something else—a thrill that made my skin prickle.

I yanked my hand away and pressed my back against the wall, my chest heaving. After what felt like an eternity, I heard his footsteps retreat.

When I finally emerged, fully dressed and trying desperately to look composed, he was packing his bag. He looked up when I entered, and I swore I saw a hint of a smile.

"Same time next week?" he asked, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

"Yes," I said, my voice barely steady.

He walked to the door, then paused. From his bag, he pulled out a small amber bottle.

"This is professional-grade massage oil," he said, placing it on the console table. "For deep muscle relaxation. If you're sore after today's workout..." He trailed off, his eyes meeting mine with deliberate intensity. "Next time, I could give you a proper deep tissue massage. If you want."

My mouth went dry. "Okay."

He smiled then—a real smile. "See you next week, Emma."

I watched him walk down the driveway to his car, a sleek black BMW. Only when he drove away did I pick up the bottle. It was still warm from being in his bag.

I unscrewed the cap and inhaled. The scent was earthy, rich, with notes of sandalwood and something darker.

I took it upstairs to my bedroom and set it on the nightstand where I'd see it every night.

One week. I had to survive one week.