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The Malfoy name had always been synonymous with power, with wealth, with an unshakable sense of superiority. Love, romance-those were trivial distractions. Draco had been raised to believe that emotions were a weakness, that attachments were dangerous, that desire was meant to be controlled, not surrendered to.  

And yet, here he was.  

The air in the dimly lit room was thick with the scent of whiskey and something floral-her perfume, lingering on his skin like a ghost. The silk sheets beneath him were still warm from where she had laid, her absence now a space that made his chest tighten in a way he didn't want to name. His fingers curled into the fabric, a desperate attempt to anchor himself, to pretend like this was no different than the countless other nights, with countless other women.  

But it was.  

He had told himself that being with her-for one night and one night only-would be just like all the others. A brief way to silence the war inside his mind, to drown in something other than regret and expectation. An escape from the weight of his name, from the legacy that bound him in chains.  

But Ophelia Evans was not like the others.  

She was a poison, seeping into his veins with every breath, every whispered word, every touch that lingered too long. A drug, intoxicating and lethal, something he knew he should resist but couldn't bring himself to. He had told himself it was a game, that he was in control. That he could have her once and walk away unscathed.  

He had been wrong.  

Now, she was everywhere-burned into his skin, embedded in his thoughts, a quiet ache he could not rid himself of.  

And it was too late.  

His body tensed, his mind scrambling to suppress the unwelcome emotions clawing at his ribs. He was a Malfoy. He was supposed to be untouchable.

But as he exhaled shakily, running a hand through his disheveled hair, he realized the truth.  

She had undone him. And he wasn't sure he wanted to be put back together.
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