The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER EIGHT

Natasha Stewart's grid of Instagram photos failed to represent Royce Milton's undeniable handsomeness adequately.

At that moment, time slowed down, stood still, suspended its ceaseless march, allowing us to exist in a cage of strange inscrutableness, the world around us blurring into nothingness.

It was as if he held a secret, much like the others, a piece of knowledge that had transformed him into a silent observer, whilst the element of perplexity meandered to the forefront of my mind and the fog of obscurity darkened the pathways of my memory.

Although strong cheekbones lent an impressive structure to Royce's face, the well-defined jawline, softened by a hint of stubble, is the hallmark of his masculine features.

His imposing visage, well-proportioned nose and cupid-bow lips, finely sculpted like works of art, evoked memories of when I met Daniel, of the sensations I felt, low, in my tummy, when our eyes collided for the first time...

No, I stand corrected. It was not our first encounter. It was a different occasion. I remember standing like a solitary figure on the desolate rooftop of an old, unfamiliar building.

My bare feet were precariously close to the ledge as my toes teetered between life and death when Daniel emerged from the shadows like a deity of salvation.

He came closer, so close I could feel his warm breath on the nape of my neck, and he whispered in my ear whether I would regret my decision to jump, to which I laughed because throwing myself into suicide would not lend time for regrets. I would be dead, long gone, without recollection of pain or stupidity.

My brows snapped together tightly.

Old Olivia wanted to die.

I wanted to kill myself.

Those words slithered out of my mind like pointed icicles. Each cold droplet dampened the wildfire of goosebumps along my neck and arms, leaving a trail of fading sparks in its wake.

Yet, even as breathlessness ebbed and raised flesh flattened, I remained in the blaze of an electrical current and unknown entities.

Why did I contemplate suicide?

Why did I think death was the only answer?

What drove me to the edge of the building that night?

But the biggest question is why Daniel allowed me to get that far before he intervened.

"I think your girl tapped out," Chase said to Connie, and I was too embarrassed to defend myself. "Either that, or she is obsessed with Royce."

Only then did I realise that I had yet to break eye contact with Royce Milton. Scratch that. I was ogling the poor sod like a fool ensnared by absurd infatuation.

Trapped in Royce's sights is where I willingly stayed because I had to memorise every detail of my ghost's killer.

Well-groomed hair, a dark and rich chestnut, is styled into a classic undercut, with the sides and back cropped short and the top left longer.

An impressive, towering stature carved with corded muscle and iron-fisted dominance is a testament to his gravitational weight and unparalleled authority.

But it was the rare trait of his gaze that attached a mystical quality to his appearance.

Sure, the edgy, bold ink peeking out from the neckline of his fitted black T-shirt and the nose hoop fitting snugly around his nostril exuded an aura of uniqueness that made him stand out from the crowd, but the contrast between his eyes, each telling a different story, is what stole the limelight.