CH005: Spider Lily

[ IZAAC ]

The tires hiss against the curb as Russell’s car roll to a stop in front of my apartment building.

I shove the door open and step out into the cool night air, my shoes hitting the pavement hard.

Russell’s voice cut through the darkness behind me.

“Izaac, wait—”

But I don’t stop. I storm toward the entrance, shoulders tight and my jaw locked.

All through the drive he kept asking why I’d walked out of the skating rink looking pale and shaken as if I’d seen a ghost?

If only he knows how close he was to the truth.

I never answered him, but the silence only made him push harder. And right now the last thing I need is anyone near me.

“You should head back home, Russell,” I say without turning around, my voice flat and final. “I want to be left alone.”

Behind me, his footsteps slow down, then stops completely.

I push through the glass doors of the building, letting them swing shut with a heavy thud.

Inside, the quiet hit me like a wall.

I head straight for the bar in the living room, fingers already tugging at my tie, loosening the knot with sharp, impatient jerks.

My hands shake as I reach for a bottle of whiskey, pour a generous shot, and toss it down my throat.

The burn race through me fiercely.

Brooklyn.

Her name slams into my chest again, and my heart starts pounding harder against my ribs, wild and frantic.

How the hell is it possible that she died too?

That means it wasn’t just me who lost everything that night. Both of us did. And somehow, we had both been given a second chance to rewrite our fates?

A week ago I would have laughed at the idea and called it a bluff. But after waking up that morning, ripped back six months before my death, panic clawing through every nerve, I couldn’t dismiss anything anymore.

Not as coincidence or as a dream.

I need answers. A why. A fucking connection.

And the question that kept circling like a knife in my skull: how did she die? Was she murdered too? By who? Why?

If she died the same night I did, that means it happened on my parents’ wedding anniversary.

March 21st.

The same night everything ended for me.

My head throbs. I pour another shot and throw it back, the liquid fire chasing the panic down.

Then I squeeze my eyes shut and tilt my head back, praying for the millionth time that all of this including the past week has been nothing but a nightmare.

But instead, I am transported back to that night.

The night of March 21st, 2021.

I had just gotten back from the club, trying to burn off the stress of another brutal week of meetings.

Summer—my childhood friend who had become my regular fuck-buddy—followed me into the penthouse late that night.

I headed straight to the bedroom to undress while she went downstairs to make tea for her headache.

As I stripped off my shirt, I grabbed my phone. Lance had sent several messages hours earlier. I opened them and found a string of photos from my parents’ wedding anniversary party.

A small smile tugged at my lips as I scrolled. I made a mental note to call them tomorrow and apologize for missing it. They’d be pissed, but they wouldn’t stay mad forever.

Then my thumb paused.

In the background of one photo, half-hidden behind laughing guests, I spotted her.

Brooklyn.

My stomach twisted with a sharp stab of guilt.

I had married her, then left the country the same day, abandoning her with my family and never reaching out once in the past year. What kind of injustice was that?

But I forced the feeling down.

It had always been a business deal, nothing more. A win-win.

I got to satisfy my grandfather’s term, get married, and inherit the family company. Her family got to clear the massive debt they owed my father.

Simple, clean, and transactional.

She knew the rules. She knew I wasn’t the type to commit to anyone, any relationship, and definitely not to a marriage.

So why feel bad?

She was probably living easy, married into a powerful family like ours.

In my head I had already planned it: when I finally returned to Miami, I’d sit her down and suggest an open marriage. That way she wouldn’t feel trapped or forced to stay faithful to a ghost.

She could find some decent guy, have a quiet affair, and be smart enough to keep it hidden from the public and from my family’s prying eyes.

The thought still burned in my mind when Summer slipped into the bedroom behind me. I hadn’t even heard her come in.

She set a tray of tea on the side table with a soft clink, then pressed her body against my back, arms sliding around my waist.

“What are you looking at?” She whispered, warm breath brushing my shoulder as she tried to peek at my phone.

I dropped the phone onto the bed before she could see anything.

“Nothing.”

Her lips found my shoulder, then trailed slowly across my back, soft and teasing. Her fingers drifted lower, searching for the waistband of my pants, aiming straight for my cock.

Before she could reach me, I caught her wrist and gently but firmly pulled her hand away.

“I’m tired,” I said, stepping out of her hold. “Let’s do this some other time.”

Summer’s face contorted with irritation at my response. And since she had the tantrums of a spoiled child, she snatched her bag from the chair without a word, muttered a curse under her breath, and stormed toward the door.

“Summer, it’s late—” I called after her.

“Get lost!” She snapped, slamming the door so hard the walls almost shook.

I stood there for a second, shaking my head.

Less than five minutes later, the doorbell rang again.

I let out a tired breath. Typical Summer. Storm out, cool off, then come crawling back.

So, I headed downstairs, already expecting to see her pouting face on the other side.

But the moment I opened the door, my stomach dropped.

It wasn’t Summer.

Instead, five men dressed in all black, faces hidden behind masks, shoved me hard in the chest.

I stumbled backward into the penthouse as they poured in and slammed the door shut behind them.

Before I could even comprehend what was going on, they pulled out guns and my blood turned to ice instantly.

Assassins.

They opened fire without hesitation.

I moved on pure instinct: twisting, ducking, and dodging the bullets that tore through the air.

I lunged at the closest man, disarmed him with a sharp twist, and snatched his gun. Three quick shots and three bodies hit the floor.

But I wasn’t fast enough.

One of the remaining men fired. The bullet ripped into the side of my stomach.

White-hot pain exploded through me. My legs buckled. The gun slipped from my fingers and clattered to the ground.

They closed in fast.

One of them pressed the cold barrel of his gun directly over my heart.

In that final second, with blood pouring down my side, I forced the words out.

“Who sent you?”

The assassin paused for a single beat.

“Spider Lily.” He said coldly.

My eyes widened. Recognition hit me like lightning. But I never got the chance to process it.

He pulled the trigger.

Three shots. Straight into my heart.

Sharp pain tore through me, and as my vision blurred and my soul began to slip away, I sent one last desperate prayer into the darkness, my heart

bleeding with injustice.

“Give me just one chance… One chance to take vengeance on Spider Lily. Even if it’s my next life.”

Everything went black.

Then my eyes opened again.

And I was lying in my bed in my room in Miami, six months earlier.

Dragging in a deep, shaky breath, the horrible memory playback ends and I slowly open my eyes to the present.

The whiskey bottle still sits on the bar in front of me, half empty now. My apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the city outside the windows.

Since the moment I woke up last week, I had known the heavens, or whatever force controlled these things, had answered my prayer.

They’ve given me a second chance.

A chance to hunt down Spider Lily. A chance to stop that night from ever happening again.

But now… Brooklyn?

How the hell is the same thing happening to her?

I cannot shake the feeling that we’re connected somehow. That what happened that night tied us together in ways I still cannot see.

What is the universe trying to tell me? What is it trying to show me?

Questions swirl in my head until it aches.

Part of me wants to get back in the car right now, drive straight to her, and demand answers. But another voice whispers that it’s a terrible idea.

What if I’m wrong? What if she looks at me like I’m crazy?

And even if I am not wrong… what are the chances she’ll tell me anything?

That girl clearly hates me, for reasons I still cannot fully pinpoint. She wouldn’t trust me as far as she could throw me.

I pour the last of the whiskey into the glass and stare at it, my jaw tight.

I only have six months before that night comes again.

If Brooklyn is the key… if she is somehow linked to Spider Lily… then I will do whatever it takes to get the answers from her.

Whatever it takes.