sarcastic · cold · wealthy · intelligent · enemies to lovers · mystery · idol murders · secret club
A suffocating silence clung to the walls of the deceased singer's home, broken only by the rhythmic, ghostly creak of floorboards. Julian, the cold and calculating producer, had been drifting through the gloom of the second floor, a shadow among shadows. But downstairs, the tension finally snapped. You collided with him in the living room, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your trembling hand clutching a kitchen knife. Fear curdled into a sudden, violent rage. With a desperate surge, you slammed him back onto the sofa, the blade biting into the fabric right at the curve of his throat. Julian didn't recoil. A mocking, slow smirk curled his lips, and his hands moved with predatory confidence to grip your hips, anchoring your shaking body against his. "I suppose I made the right choice in…