This event will not only showcase the importance of behavioral science but also serve to raise critical funds for ongoing research and education in the field. Your expertise and perspective will undoubtedly inspire and resonate with our audience.

Thank you once again for lending your voice and expertise to this important cause. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you require any resources or support as you prepare for the event.

Warm regards,

Dr. Melanie Corbin

Chair, Department of Behavioral Sciences

The email stares back at me from the screen, its words neatly typed, each one tightening the invisible noose around my neck. My fingers hover over the mouse, motionless, as if clicking away will somehow lessen the weight pressing against me.

The way you’ve unraveled his psychopathy and the intricate nuances of his behavior is both fascinating and vital to understanding the complexities of criminal behavior.

Fascinating. That’s the word they’ve chosen. They’re enthralled by the work I’ve done, the clinical precision I’ve supposedly brought to studying Ghost’s mind. But I can’t stop replaying our last moment together, the look in his eyes, or the way he kissed me.

Ghost is more than fascinating. He’s damn near irresistible.

I let out a shaky breath, slumping in my chair. The email’s praise is a spotlight I want to shrink away from. They have no idea how I continued blurring the lines between me and Ghost until they became nonexistent.

They can’t know. That thought is immediate, sharp, and terrifying. If they knew how much of myself I’ve already sacrificed to understand Ghost—how personal it’s become—they wouldn’t be congratulating me. They’d be condemning me.

The ticking clock on the wall is deafening in the silence of my office. I press my fingers to my temples, trying to force the tension out of my head. The room feels too small, too bright, like the walls are closing in.

Get your shit together.

I glance at the email again, my eyes scanning the polite words, the thinly veiled demand for more. They want me to stand on a stage and tell them about Ghost, to make him a spectacle to satisfy their curiosity. But how can I talk about him like that now, as though he’s just another file on my desk?

My gaze shifts to his file, the notes glaring up at me. Diagnoses. Traits. Behavioral patterns. All of it meticulously documented.

None of it captures what I saw in that interview room.

The pain.

The longing.

The raw, undeniable humanity he shouldn’t be capable of.

My computer pings again with a new notification, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. I glance at the subject line, but I can’t bring myself to open it. Instead, I close my laptop and stare up at the ceiling.

I can’t let Ghost derail me, not when so much is riding on this keynote. My career depends on it. My reputation. But as much as I try to focus on what matters—what should matter—all I can think about is him.

The way he looked at me. The way he said my name.

The way I didn’t want to leave.

CHAPTER 36

The glass of wine dangles precariously from my fingertips as I recline on my bed with my laptop balanced on my knees. The screen’s glow is harsh against the soft lighting of the room. I stare at the blank document in front of me, the blinking cursor mocking me with its persistence.

My keynote speech. The one everyone is so excited about. The one they’re certain will showcase my brilliance, my insight, and my objectivity.

The outline sits neatly in a document, a skeleton of ideas waiting for flesh, but I can’t make the words come. Every time I try, the same thought rears its head: How do I talk about him without exposing myself?

I take a sip of wine, the warmth spreading in my belly. It dulls the edge of my nerves but does little to quiet the noise in my head. They want to hear about Ghost, about the man behind the diagnosis, the enigma wrapped in danger and control. They want to know how I unraveled his psychopathy.

But how do I make sense of him when I’m still trying to understand? And where do I even begin? How do I distill months of studying him into something academic and detached?

I exhale sharply and reread the first sentence: “Psychopathy is a condition defined by control.”

It’s a good start. Clean. Professional. Clinical.

I take another sip of wine and lean back against the headboard, staring at the words on the screen. Ghost is nothing if not controlled. Every smirk, every word, and every movement is deliberate and calculated. It’s what makes him so fascinating. And so infuriating.

But he wasn’t controlled the last time I saw him…

Ghost looked at me as though he was dying; his pain was so raw it felt like a boulder pressing down on my chest. I swallow hard as the memory of his gaze appears in my mind.

Vulnerability. Longing. Empathy.

Things he shouldn’t be capable of.

I set the wine glass on the nightstand and run my hands over my face. Focus, Geneva. The speech isn’t about him. It’s about his condition, his behavior, and the way he manipulates and deceives. It’s about what makes him a textbook case.

Not the exceptions that make him human.

I type another line and then read it aloud: “Psychopaths thrive in environments where they can exploit weakness. They adapt, manipulate, and control with alarming precision.”

My gaze drifts to the wine glass, the deep red liquid catching the soft light. The alcohol isn’t helping. If anything, it’s making things blur even more.

Turning my head, I glance at the scattered notes around me, papers strewn across the bed like fallen leaves. Quotes from past lectures. Clinical terms. Carefully worded descriptions that strip the humanity from the subject, leaving only a puzzle to be solved.

I pick up one of the papers, scanning a highlighted passage: “Psychopathy is the absence of connection, the inability to form genuine bonds with others.”

Frustration bubbles up in my chest, so I drop the paper back onto the pile. None of these notes or observations account for Ghost. The file doesn’t explain why he saved me, why he let me see him in a way no one else has. And it certainly doesn’t explain why I let him touch me.

I press my palms against my thighs, grounding myself, but the memory of his touch keeps replaying in my mind. The way he said my name like it meant something. Like I meant everything.

But that’s a lie, isn’t it?

Except that look shattered something inside me. Ghost isn’t just a simple answer anymore. He’s the question I can’t stop asking.

I reach for the wine again, taking a long sip before setting the glass down. I’ve spent years telling myself I could maintain control, that I could navigate the darkness without it touching me. But now I’m not so sure.

The cursor blinks, urging me to continue, but I can’t. Not yet. Instead, I close the laptop gently, resting my head back against the pillows. The wine hums in my veins, offering a false sense of calm, but the truth simmers just beneath the surface.

Ghost isn’t just the focus of the keynote. He’s my focus.

I close my eyes, letting the silence of the room wrap around me like a cocoon, but it doesn’t bring the tranquility I hope for. Instead, it brings memories. That day. That moment in the interview room when the boundary between us dissolved completely.

His hands on me. Not manipulative or detached, but intimate and claiming. His voice, low and rough, commanding while laced with something deeper. The way his fingers moved with purpose, igniting sensations I’ve never felt.