His Beautiful Undoing

CHAPTER 4

Routine. That word holds me together more than anything else these days. Every morning I leave my tiny apartment and walk two blocks to the small independent bookstore where I have been working since long before the trial began. The place smells like dust and paper and cinnamon tea. The walls are lined with mismatched shelves, the floorboards creak with every step, and the lighting flickers sometimes in the back corner. Most people might find it a little outdated, but it feels safe to me.

Safe in a world that has not felt safe in a long time.

My boss, Harold, is a gentle man in his sixties who pretends not to know the details of my life, though I am certain he has read everything. He hires out of stubborn loyalty, not profit, which is why most of the community respects him. Or used to, until he hired the woman who testified against a billionaire.

He looks up from the register as soon as I arrive. His smile is warm, but his shoulders are tense.

“Morning, Elena,” he says.

“Morning,” I echo, setting my bag behind the counter.

His gaze flickers over me with concern. “Everything alright?”

I nod even though the answer is no. “Just tired.”

He accepts that without pushing. Harold never asks questions he is afraid to know the answers to. Still, I see the strain around his eyes. The trial dragged his quiet little store into the spotlight, and the whispers did not stop when Adrian was sentenced. A few customers stopped coming entirely. Some glance at me with open judgment, others with curiosity that feels almost predatory.

Harold tries to hide the impact, but I notice the drop in foot traffic, the way he studies the ledger longer each week.

“I can take extra shifts,” I offer. “If it helps.”

“You already do enough.” His voice is gentle but firm. “Focus on yourself for now.”

If only that were possible.

By the afternoon, the store settles into its usual sleepy rhythm. Soft music plays through the speakers. A mother browses the children’s section with her toddler. A teenager in a hoodie flips through graphic novels. A pair of older women whisper over the new releases.

Normal. Quiet. Manageable.

I am organizing a table of discounted paperbacks when the air shifts.

It is subtle at first, like a change in atmospheric pressure. A hush sweeps through the room, conversations faltering mid-sentence. Even the background music feels too loud suddenly. I look up.

A sleek black car has pulled to a stop outside. It gleams in the sunlight, tinted windows reflecting the street. It looks painfully out of place in front of our humble storefront.

The passenger door opens. My breath catches. Damian Thronton steps out.

He straightens slowly, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit jacket with deliberate precision. The sunlight catches on the sharp lines of his clothing and the controlled expression he wears like a second skin. Two men remain by the car, clearly his security, though they blend into the sidewalk with practiced ease.

Customers notice him instantly. A ripple of recognition moves through the shop.

“Is that him?” someone whispers.

“Damian Thronton.”

“What is he doing here?”

My pulse hammers against my ribs.

He walks toward the shop with smooth, unhurried strides. Every movement radiates quiet authority, the kind that does not need to be loud to command attention. He pushes open the door, and the small overhead bell chimes weakly, as if intimidated by him.

He steps inside. The air cools sharply, or maybe that is just me. I freeze behind the counter. My hands go still. My throat goes impossibly dry. A cold wave of dread washes over me. Of all the places he could walk into, why here?

Why now?

His gaze sweeps the store, and when his eyes land on me, something inside my chest twists. His expression remains calm, perfectly composed, yet there is something behind it. Calculation. Curiosity. A faint spark of something unreadable.

He walks toward me.

Every step feels like it tightens the space around us. Customers move aside instinctively. Even Harold retreats halfway behind a bookshelf, peeking out nervously. Damian stops at the counter.

Up close, he feels taller than I remembered. Sharper. More dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with physical threat and everything to do with power.

“Ms. Hart,” he says.

My stomach drops. Hearing him say my last name feels like a warning delivered quietly.

I swallow hard. “Can I help you?”

His eyes hold mine for a long moment. Too long. “I am looking for a specific book.”

His tone is polite, controlled, yet there is something edged beneath it, something that makes me feel as if this is not about a book at all.

“What title?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay steady.

“Corporate law,” he replies. “Volume three of the revised Horland edition.”

The request is so specific it sounds fabricated, but I do not question it. Anything to step away from this counter. Anything to put distance between us.

“Let me check,” I say, walking stiffly toward the back aisle.

I can feel his gaze following me. It presses against my spine like a physical touch, cold and heavy.

We carry the series. I find the exact volume wedged between two dusty encyclopedias. My hands tremble as I pull it free. I take a deep breath before returning to the counter.

He watches me approach, his expression unreadable.

I place the book in front of him. “Here you go.”

He rests his hand on the cover. His fingers are long and precise, the kind that belong to someone accustomed to control.

When I try to pull my hand back, our fingers almost touch.

Almost.

The small gap between our skin crackles with a strange electric awareness that startles me. Not attraction. Not fear. Something more unsettling.

A warning. A signal. A shift that ricochets through me so suddenly that I lose my breath for a second. His eyes flicker. He felt it too.

Neither of us acknowledges it.

He slides the book toward himself. “Thank you.”

I nod numbly. “Of course.”

He reaches for his wallet. The motion is slow, deliberate. The shop remains quiet, the customers pretending not to stare.

I ring up the purchase. My hands still shake. I hope he cannot see it.

When he passes me his card, he holds it a heartbeat too long, forcing me to take it from his fingers. The brush of contact never happens, but the closeness feels intentional.

I swipe the card and hand it back quickly.

He places the book into a small paper bag, though he does not look at it again. His attention is fixed entirely on me.

“Enjoy your day,” I say automatically.

He does not move for a moment. Then he leans in slightly. Not enough for anyone else to hear, but enough that his presence fills my senses.

His voice drops to a quiet, controlled murmur.

“We will be seeing each other soon, Ms. Hart.”

The words slide over my skin like ice.

I stare at him, unable to mask the shock. “Why would we?”

He does not answer.

Instead, he steps back, gives a polite nod, and turns toward the door. The bell chimes as he exits, the sound strangely hollow.

His security falls into step behind him. The black car door opens. He gets inside without a backward glance.

The engine hums, the car pulls away, and the street returns to its normal rhythm as if nothing happened. But something did. Something shifted in a direction I cannot see yet.

I stand frozen behind the counter, my breath shallow. My skin tingles where his nearness lingered. My mind spins with questions I cannot voice.

Why did he come here? Why approach me at my workplace? Why that book? Why those words?

Harold comes out from behind the shelf, face pale. “Was that who I think it was?”

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.

Instead I replay Damian’s final words in my head. We will be seeing each other soon. A promise. A threat. A beginning I am not ready for. And a warning I cannot ignore.