Who Is The Man Touching Me At Midnight?

Maeve's POV

Following Aunt Helen’s sudden death and the exhausting funeral arrangements, strange things began happening at home.

A lingering warmth on an empty sofa. Faint footsteps echoing in the hallway late at night.

I couldn't shake the creeping certainty that a third person was hiding in the house with my husband and me.

My husband brushed it off, insisting it was nothing more than grief and severe insomnia playing tricks on my mind, and told me not to overthink it.

Then, one morning, he walked through the front door, briefcase in hand, his eyes heavy from an obvious all-nighter. "The institute's data was a total disaster," he explained with a tired sigh. "I was stuck at the lab all night."

I froze, completely at a loss.

"But you came home last night," I stared at him, my voice trembling. "We were in bed, making love for half the night."

He frowned, looking at me with the cold, clinical detachment of a doctor examining a patient. "Maeve, I didn't set foot in this house last night. You need to stop imagining things..."

"Enough, Soren. Don't touch me!"

I shoved away the hand that had slid under the covers to wrap around my waist, irritably pulling the blanket tight around myself. "Are you crazy? We were at it until 3 A.M. last night, and you want more now? I have to end my leave and go back to work tomorrow."

The bedroom fell dead silent.

Click. The bedside sconce flicked on. Under the harsh yellow light, Soren half-sat up in his dark grey silk pajamas. His face—usually wearing the mask of an elegant, seasoned Caldwell researcher—was etched with pure shock.

"Maeve, what are you talking about?" He furrowed his brows. "I was at the institute until 4 A.M. Project Halcyon’s clinical reports went south. I never came home. And even if I did, I would have crashed in the guest room. I never touched your door."

A chill slithered up my spine.

"Impossible." I bolted upright, locking eyes with him. "Last night... we were right here, in this bed. You insisted on holding me from behind, you—"

"Look at me," Soren commanded, "My entire research team pulled an all-nighter with me. What is going on with you?"

My body went rigid.

Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the bedroom corner.

Underneath the heavy crimson velvet drapes, a sliver of black leather peeked out—the tip of a man's dress shoe, pointing toward the bed. Through the gap in the curtains, the faint outline of a human figure loomed.

"There's someone there!"

I clawed at Soren's arm, my knuckles turning white. "Behind the curtain! Someone is watching us!"

Soren followed my gaze, his jaw—previously slack with exhaustion—instantly clenching tight.

"Stay in bed. Don't move," he whispered.

He grabbed the heavy brass base of the table lamp, his bare feet sinking into the Persian rug as he stalked toward the drapes. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I couldn’t breathe.

"Come out!"

He barked the order, violently tearing the curtains back, slamming the lamp upward—

Nothing. The space behind the curtain was empty.

At the edge of the rug sat a single pair of black Oxford shoes. No voyeur. No one at all.

My legs gave out. I slid out of bed, staring at the shoes. "No... I swear I saw a shadow..."

"Those are my shoes, Maeve."

Soren lowered the lamp heavily and turned around. There was no relief in his eyes, only a suffocating pity. "Dr. Voss called at 9 P.M., so I went to the balcony for a smoke. I didn't want to track dirt on the rug you just washed, so I left them by the glass door. As for the shadow—it was the oak tree outside catching the wind. Just a shadow cast on the fabric."

"No!" I shook my head frantically, backing away. "There was a man! For the past few days, there's been someone inside the house!"

He stepped forward and pulled me into an unyielding embrace.

"Shh, baby, relax." His palm gently stroked my hair, but his tone was an evaluation. "It's only been a week since your aunt’s funeral. Profound grief, combined with severe insomnia, can force the brain to conjure protective hallucinations."

"But last night was real! I'm not crazy!" I pushed against his chest, tears streaming uncontrollably.

"Of course you're not crazy. You're just exhausted," Soren sighed, easing me back into bed and tucking me in. "Listen to me. Take another sick day tomorrow. Stay home and sleep. You're going to be okay."

Was it true? Was I so consumed by grief that I was seeing things that weren't there?

Lulled by his rhythmic soothing, I eventually drifted off.

I don't know how much time passed before a strong body slipped under my covers.

In the dark, a calloused hand expertly pushed up the hem of my nightgown.

Hot, wet lips pressed against the back of my neck, sending a shiver through me.

In the pale moonlight bleeding through the window, I saw him clearly.

It was Soren's face.

But he was staring down at me with a twisted, manic, deeply violent grin.

Operating on pure instinct, my left hand reached toward the other side of the bed. My fingertips grazed silk pajamas, then the steady rise and fall of a breathing chest. The undeniable warmth of a living person.

The real Soren was sleeping soundly right next to me.

Pure, paralyzing terror clamped around my throat like a fist of ice.

Then... the man pinning me down, tearing at my clothes, smiling at me with my husband's face...

Who the hell was he?!