Faked Disappearance, Real Love's End

Holly Baxter's POV

Keegan came from a prestigious family, even wealthier than Beckham's.

To outsiders, Keegan was reserved and unapproachable. I used to think so too—distant, polite, Beckham's friend, and nothing more.

After college, I got a graphic design job at a mid-sized company. It turned out the company was actually a subsidiary of Keegan's family conglomerate. Legally speaking, he was my boss.

About a month before Beckham disappeared, our dynamic shifted.

When I got the news of Beckham's disappearance, I was devastated. Keegan, acting guilty for his supposed role in it, offered to take care of me.

"He went missing while hiking with me. I feel incredibly guilty," he had said.

"Beckham would want me to do this," he whispered. "He'd want to make sure you weren't alone." His kindness felt like a lifeline, bringing me immense comfort during my agonizing pain.

His care was incredibly meticulous. He prepared every meal and even anticipated my needs.

"Keegan, you don't have to do all this. I can manage."

I assured him that I didn't blame him for Beckham's disappearance. I was still defending Beckham, deeply trapped in my own delusions.

One morning, I caught him folding my laundry—including my underwear.

I instantly blushed.

"Keegan, stop! You don't need to do that!"

He looked up, his expression entirely serious. "I just wanted to help. I do laundry all the time. Is there anything else you need help with?"

I shook my head. "No, Keegan, I've got it."

On the night he was supposed to leave, I woke up feeling thirsty. Passing by the guest room, I noticed a sliver of light spilling from the crack of the door. I tiptoed closer and peeked inside.

Keegan was standing in the middle of the room, shirtless. His back was to me, his muscles clearly defined. In his hands, he held a worn T-shirt of mine—the one I used to sleep in. He pressed the shirt to his face and took a deep breath. He gripped it tightly, almost with a sense of devout reverence.

His whole body was tense, every muscle pulled taut. The veins on his forearms bulged, tracing sharp lines beneath his skin. His shoulders were hunched, his head bowed as he clutched the fabric.

I let out a soft gasp. My foot had bumped against a loose floorboard.

He whipped around. His usually calm and composed eyes were wide open, dark and brooding, radiating a raw, feral intensity.

A gaze brimming with raw lust locked onto mine.