Killian didn’t consider himself obsessive.

  Curious? Sure. Persistent? Maybe. But obsessive? That wasn’t his style.

  And yet, as he lay in bed that night, staring at his phone screen, he knew exactly what this looked like.

  He had spent the past hour doing something he had never done before—digging into someone’s life. Her life.

  Anastasia Hart.

  It had started as a simple search. Just to see if she even had social media.

  She did. Barely.

  Her Instagram was practically barren—only a handful of posts dating back years. No selfies, no thirst traps, no glimpses into her personal life. Just the occasional landscape, a few pictures of books, and a single grainy shot of the night sky with no caption.

  Her Facebook? Even worse. An empty profile with nothing but a default picture and a birthday. No public posts, no friend list visible. It was like she didn’t want to be seen.

  Killian frowned.

  That didn’t make sense. Everyone had some kind of online presence. Even the most private people had something. But Anastasia? She was a ghost.

  He switched tactics, typing her name into Google. Nothing. No mentions in school events, no old blog posts, no tags from other people. It was like she existed only in the physical world. And that irritated him more than it should have.

  Killian prided himself on understanding people. It wasn’t hard—most wore their intentions on their sleeves. They wanted to be understood, to be noticed, even if they pretended otherwise.

  But Anastasia?

  She had built a wall so high that no one could even see past it. And that was what bothered him.

  Not that she avoided him. Not that she didn’t care about his attention. But that she had made herself deliberately unknowable.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  And the worst part?

  Now that he had noticed, he couldn’t stop trying to figure her out.

  Killian leaned back against his headboard, exhaling slowly as he stared at his phone. If Anastasia wasn’t going to leave a digital trail of her own, he’d have to look elsewhere.

  And who better than Sebastian Thorne?

  It was an obvious move. Sebastian was close to her—practically family, as he had so smugly pointed out. If anyone had photos of her, it would be him.

  A few taps later, Killian was scrolling through Sebastian’s Instagram. Unlike Anastasia’s near-invisible online presence, Sebastian’s feed was full—pictures from parties, vacations, random aesthetic shots that looked like they were taken effortlessly but were probably edited to hell.

  And then he found them.

  Buried between flashy college photos and group pictures of Sebastian’s usual crowd were older posts. Killian’s thumb hovered over the screen as he slowed down.

  There she was. Anastasia.

  Not the quiet, elusive girl he knew now—but a younger Anastasia.

  A photo from years ago showed her sitting on a porch, legs tucked under her, nose buried in a book while Sebastian sat beside her, making a ridiculous face at the camera.

  Another one—a blurry shot of her running through the rain, Sebastian chasing after her, both of them laughing.

  Then a group photo.

  Killian’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  Sebastian was in it, of course. And so was Anastasia. But there was someone else.

  A guy. Tall, dark hair who looked so much like Sebastian, standing just a little too close to her. His arm around Anastasia’s shoulders as she smiled shyly holding a small teddy bear.

  Killian swiped, finding another picture of the three of them. This time, Anastasia was sitting on a blanket at what looked like a summer picnic. Sebastian was sprawled beside her, grinning, but the other guy—he was looking at her.

  Not at the camera.

  Not at the scenery.

  Just her.

  Killian stared at the screen.

  Who the hell was he?

  He scrolled faster, looking for a name, a tag, anything. But Sebastian hadn’t captioned most of his old posts, and the guy wasn’t in any of the more recent photos.

  Something twisted in Killian’s chest.

  He had started this search just to satisfy his curiosity—to put a name to whatever this feeling was, to figure out why Anastasia had gotten under his skin.

  But now?

  Now, he wasn’t just curious.

  He wanted answers.