Chapter 3: The Unlisted Number

Chapter 3: The Unlisted Number

For three days, Elara didn't sleep. She didn't eat. She painted.

Her studio, once a graveyard of white canvases and stagnant silence, had erupted into a chaotic symphony of color and form. The apartment was a stranger to her now, filled with the manic energy of her creation. Canvases leaned against every surface, each one a fever dream captured in acrylic and charcoal. They were violent and beautiful, filled with swirling, shadowy figures and slashes of a piercing, impossible blue. They were all him. The curve of a muscular back, the suggestion of a tattoo snaking over a shoulder, the searing intensity of a gaze that promised both ruin and revelation.

She was fueled by the memory of him, by the phantom thrumming he’d left deep in her bones. The creative block hadn't just been broken; it had been dynamited. But now, on the fourth day, the fuel was running low. The fever was breaking, replaced by a deep, gnawing exhaustion and an even deeper ache. The vibrant colors on the canvases began to look garish. The furious energy felt like madness.

The humming in her blood was fading, and the silence was creeping back in, more predatory than before. She looked at her paint-stained hands, trembling not from exertion but from withdrawal. She needed another hit. The realization was ugly, shameful, and undeniable.

A sliver of logic, long dormant, pierced through the obsessive haze. Who was he? A plumber who performed miracles on chipped porcelain? Whose tattoos seemed to breathe? Her mind kept replaying the moment the ceramic had knit itself back together under his thumb. It was a glitch in reality, a tear in the fabric of everything she knew to be true.

She had to know. She had to ground herself, to prove he was just a man, however intense.

Her phone felt alien in her hand, clean and smooth against her paint-caked fingers. She found the number for "Primal Plumbing Services" in her call history. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she pressed the call button.

"Primal Plumbing, how can I help you?" The voice was cheerful, female, and jarringly normal.

"Hi," Elara began, trying to keep her own voice steady. "I had one of your plumbers out a few days ago, and I just wanted to… to leave a positive review. His name was Kael."

There was a pause, the sound of polite typing. "Kael? Can you spell that for me?"

"K-A-E-L."

More typing. The silence stretched, filled only by the tinny sound of the receptionist breathing. "I'm sorry, ma'am, we have no record of an employee by that name. Not currently, not ever. Are you sure you have the right company?"

Elara's blood ran cold. "Yes, Primal Plumbing. He fixed my sink on Tuesday."

"I can see we had a job dispatched to your address," the woman said, her voice still professionally pleasant, "but the ticket was closed out as 'no service required.' There's no technician's name assigned to it. It’s… odd. A glitch in the system, I suppose. Are you sure your sink is working properly?"

"It's working perfectly," Elara whispered, staring at the flawless white mug sitting on her counter.

"Well, that's good! But I'm sorry, I can't help you with the review. There's no Kael here."

Elara hung up without another word. A wave of vertigo washed over her. He wasn’t real. Not in any way the world understood. He wasn't a plumber. He was an anomaly, a ghost in the machine, a lie wrapped in muscle and ink. The fear she should have felt was there, a cold knot in her stomach, but it was drowned out by a ferocious, exhilarating wave of something else. He was a secret. Her secret.

Her eyes fell on the crumpled bar napkin sitting on the counter, the ten digits scrawled across it the only tangible proof he had ever been there. It was a choice. Throw it away, bolt the door, and try to forget the man who didn't exist. Or… lean into the madness.

She snatched the phone, her thumb hovering over the new message icon. What could she possibly say? The truth was too insane, too vulnerable. You broke my brain and now my inspiration is running out, please come back and shatter me again. No. She had to use the pretense he’d given her, the lie that held a deeper truth.

Her fingers flew across the screen.

Another leak. This one's worse than the last.

She hit send before she could lose her nerve. The message was delivered instantly. The wait for a reply was an eternity that lasted less than five seconds. Her phone buzzed in her hand, making her jump.

The reply was a single word.

On my way.

Panic and ecstasy warred in her chest. He was coming. Now. She looked at her reflection in the dark screen of her phone—wild-eyed, paint-smudged, wearing the same stretched-out sweater for four days. She looked like a madwoman. This time, she wouldn't be the pathetic, lonely mess he’d found.

She flew into motion, stripping off her soiled clothes and jumping into a scalding hot shower, scrubbing away the paint and the days of frantic work. She emerged flushed and raw, wrapping herself in a towel. She chose her outfit with surgical precision: not a comfortable sweater, but a simple, form-fitting black dress that skimmed her thighs. It was a dress for a date, for a seduction, for a surrender. She left her hair damp, letting it curl around her shoulders. No makeup. She wanted him to see her, not a mask.

Just as she was taking a final, shaky breath, the knock came.

It wasn't the polite tap of the gentleman, nor the firm rap of the handyman. It was a heavy, resonant boom, a sound of absolute authority. It was the knock of a king arriving to claim his tribute.

She walked to the door, her bare feet silent on the floorboards, her entire body a tightly coiled spring of anticipation. She opened it.

The man on her doorstep stole the air from her lungs.

It was Kael, but he was utterly transformed. The work pants and tight t-shirt were gone, replaced by a tailored charcoal suit that fit his powerful frame to perfection. He wore no tie, the top two buttons of his crisp, black shirt undone, revealing the hollow of his throat and the dark, swirling tattoos that crept up his neck. He looked expensive, dangerous, and utterly out of place in her dingy hallway. The handyman was a fiction. The predator was here, undisguised and magnificent.

His piercing blue eyes raked over her, from her damp hair to her bare feet, a slow, possessive appraisal that left her feeling both naked and worshipped. A slow smirk, the one she’d seen in her dreams, spread across his face.

“Much worse,” he murmured, his voice a silken growl that promised everything.

He stepped inside without being invited, brushing past her. The air crackled, saturated with his scent—not rain and ozone this time, but something richer, like expensive cologne, dark spices, and the underlying wildness she remembered.

His gaze swept over the studio, taking in the gallery of chaotic canvases that chronicled her obsession with him. He stopped in front of the largest one, a maelstrom of shadow and that searing blue. He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from the dried paint.

“I knew it,” he said, his voice soft with satisfaction. “I knew you had this in you.” He turned to face her, his eyes burning with an ancient light. “I felt it the moment I walked down your street. All the other people… they’re like faint static, background noise. But you…” He took a step closer. “You were a lighthouse in a storm. A beacon of raw, untapped energy. Creative, sensual, desperate. It’s the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever tasted.”

There it was. Not the whole truth, but a piece of it so profound it buckled her knees. He wasn't human. He was drawn to her energy. He fed on it.

“What are you?” she breathed, the question she was too afraid to ask.

He closed the remaining distance between them, his big hands coming up to cup her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “I’m the answer to the question you’ve been screaming into the silence.”

He didn't give her a chance to respond. He lowered his head and his mouth claimed hers again, but this time was different. There was no pretense, no discovery. It was a conscious, deliberate act of consumption. He backed her up against the wall, her new paintings a chaotic mural around them, the rough canvas of one scratching her bare shoulder. He lifted her easily, wrapping her legs around his waist, the fine fabric of his suit a shocking contrast against her skin.

His mouth devoured hers as his hand slid up her dress, his touch no longer just rough, but proprietary. He was here to collect what he had sown, to feast on the vibrant, desperate life he had awakened within her. She met his hunger with her own, a silent, frantic admission that this was what she wanted, what she needed. The leak was no longer in the sink. It was her, her soul, her passion, pouring out of her and straight into him. And as he pushed her harder against the wall, she knew this was no longer about fixing something broken. It was about shattering it completely.