Chapter 18

Damon POV

I stood alone in the conference room for ten minutes after Seraphina left, staring at the spot where she'd stumbled backward from our handshake. The mahogany table reflected the afternoon light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, creating patterns that seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them.

What the hell had just happened?

The vision, because that's what it had been, it surely was not a daydream or a stress-induced hallucination, it lingered with uncomfortable clarity. Stone walls carved with symbols I somehow recognized. Torchlight casting shadows that moved independently of any flame. And Seraphina, wearing robes of deep blue silk, pressing her hands against my chest with desperate urgency.

The memory made my skin prickle with recognition that had no logical foundation.

I loosened my tie and walked to the windows, looking down at the city fifteen floors below. People moved like ants along the sidewalks, going about their normal lives, dealing with problems that could be solved with logic and determination. Problems that made sense.

Unlike whatever was happening to me.

The dreams had been getting worse for months. Always fragments, always just out of reach when I woke up. A woman's voice calling my name. Ancient places that felt more familiar than my own apartment. The certainty that I was searching for something essential, something I'd lost and needed to find again.

I'd attributed it to stress, to the pressure of running a corporation, to too many late nights and too much caffeine. But now, after touching Seraphina's hand and experiencing that impossible shared vision, the dreams felt less like random neural firing and more like memories I couldn't access.

Which was insane. I was a rational businessman who'd built an empire on logical decision-making and calculated risk assessment. I didn't believe in psychic connections or past lives or whatever new age nonsense might explain what had just occurred.

But I couldn't deny what I'd experienced.

My phone buzzed with a text message, jarring me back to the present. A reminder about a merger negotiation that would determine the future of a smaller company, Normal problems with normal solutions.

I gathered my materials and headed for the door, then paused at the threshold.

"Damon?" The lead attorney was looking at me expectantly. "Your thoughts on the intellectual property clause?"

I refocused on the contract language, pushing aside the strange undercurrents that seemed to be affecting my concentration. "The clause is acceptable as written. We can proceed."

But even as I spoke, part of my mind was elsewhere, replaying the vision of marble floors stained with blood, of walking away from someone who'd called my name with heartbreaking desperation.

The meeting concluded successfully, with handshakes and congratulations that felt oddly hollow after my earlier experience with Seraphina. These were normal business handshakes, brief and professional, carrying no electric charge or impossible visions.

Before I knew it, most of the executive floor had emptied out, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a growing certainty that my life had taken a turn into territory I didn't understand.

I called building security from my office phone.

"This is Cross. I want a security review for Seraphina Knox, the intern working on the executive floor."

"What kind of review, sir?"

The question hung in the air while I tried to articulate concerns I couldn't rationally explain. Why did I suddenly feel protective of an intern I barely knew? Why did the thought of her walking home alone make my chest tight with anxiety?

"Background check, current living situation, any unusual incidents or contacts. I want to know if she's safe."

"Is there a specific threat we should be aware of?"

"No specific threat. Just due diligence for someone working on sensitive projects."

The lie came easily, but it felt inadequate. The truth was that some instinct I couldn't name was screaming that Seraphina needed protection, that she was vulnerable in ways that went beyond ordinary urban dangers.

After I hung up, I sat behind my desk and tried to understand what was happening to me. The protective instincts, the intense focus on someone I'd met only weeks ago, the growing sense that she represented something far more significant than a talented intern.

It wasn't rational. It wasn't like me. And it was getting stronger.

My office door opened without a knock, and Rebecca appeared with a stack of documents that needed signatures.

"The Morrison contract revisions," she announced, setting them on my desk. "And the quarterly budget approvals. How did the intern's presentation go?"

"Well. Very well."

Rebecca raised an eyebrows at the brevity of my response. I usually provided detailed feedback on important meetings, but I couldn't articulate what had actually happened in that conference room.

"The executives seemed impressed," she continued. "Margaret mentioned that Miss Knox might be offered a permanent position."

"She should be. Her analytical skills are exceptional."

"You seem... thoughtful about something."

The observation was accurate but unwelcome. Rebecca had worked for me for three years, and she knew my moods better than most people. But how could I explain that I was questioning my own sanity based on a handshake with an intern?

"Just considering strategic implications," I said, which wasn't entirely false.

"Should I arrange any follow-up meetings with Miss Knox? Additional project assignments?"

The suggestion sent an unexpected thrill through me, followed immediately by wariness about my own reaction. Why was I so eager for excuses to spend time with her?

"Not immediately. Let her focus on completing her current analysis."

But even as I said it, I knew I'd find reasons to interact with her again. The compulsion felt foreign to my usual professional boundaries, yet impossible to resist.

After Rebecca left, I signed documents and reviewed reports with mechanical efficiency while part of my mind remained focused on Seraphina. Where she lived, how she spent her evenings, whether she was experiencing the same disorienting aftermath from our handshake.

The sun set over the city, painting my office in shades of gold and orange that reminded me uncomfortably of torchlight on stone walls. I stayed late, partly because I had work to finish and partly because going home to my empty apartment felt less appealing than remaining in the building where she'd been.

Which was disturbing for reasons I didn't want to examine.

At about 9 o'clock, I finally gathered my things and headed for the elevator. As the doors closed, I caught my reflection in the polished steel and barely recognized the man looking back at me.