5. Unseen Eyes 

Lena 

There’s a knock, but not from the door. From inside. I freeze mid-step in the hallway, my dinner leftovers still in one hand. It’s past midnight, and the apartment is soaked in silence—until it isn’t.

Knock. Again, from the bathroom.

My body goes cold, pulse thrumming behind my ears. I set the container down slowly, heart hammering as I reach for my phone. The hallway stretches long and shadowed, and every sound suddenly feels magnified—my breath, the creak of floorboards, even the wind scraping the windows outside.

I edge toward the bathroom. The door’s half-closed, a sliver of darkness visible beyond it. I extend a trembling hand and push it open. I found nothing. Just the soft hum of the bathroom fan and the usual chaos of my half-used skincare products. But then my eyes shift upward—to the mirror.

There it is.

My name. Again, written in red lipstick. And a line slashed through it. I stare. I don’t scream. I don’t move. Just stare. Because this isn’t the first time.

Last week, it was my perfume bottle moved slightly to the left. The week before that, it was the bedroom window cracked open when I swore I locked it. And now… this. My thumb hovers over my phone screen, ready to dial 911, but I can’t bring myself to press it.

What would I say?

That someone write my name on a mirror?

That I think someone’s inside, even though I didn’t see anyone?

They’d label me paranoid. Hysterical. Delusional.

I clean the mirror with shaking hands, scrubbing it until the red disappears. Then I double lock every door, shove a chair under the handle, and try to sleep with the lights on. But I don’t sleep. I watch the door.

By morning, I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. My head aches. My hands are unsteady. I forget my coffee, then spill it, then run back up three flights of stairs to grab my ID badge before finally getting into my car.

The traffic is brutal. I'm already late, but I stay in my lane, focused—until a silver SUV swerves into mine without warning. The brakes scream. My body jolts forward, then jerks back with the seatbelt.

The other driver doesn’t even stop.

I pull over and check the damage—just a crushed bumper and a slight dent on the side. Not fatal. Not even worth a police report. But it feels like a warning. By the time I get to the office, I’m twenty minutes late, my blouse wrinkled, and my thoughts tangled like a web I can’t untie.

Mr King is already in the boardroom, pacing in front of the projector with his usual steel-eyed glare. I slip in quietly, trying to avoid the stares, but his voice slices the air anyway.

“Miss Moore,” he says, not even turning. “Do you make it a habit to keep executives waiting, or is today special?” His voice is silk layered over razors. “Car trouble,” I mutter, taking my seat. “Apologies.”

He doesn’t respond, but I feel his gaze flick to me once, brief and unreadable.

We move on.

After the meeting, I linger near the water cooler, pressing a cold paper cup to my temple and wishing I could evaporate. I expect to be ignored. 

But then his voice comes again—low and sharp. “You were in an accident.” I blink. “How—?”

“You’re limping. Your collar’s wrinkled. And you’re ten shades paler than normal.” He pauses. “Not difficult to deduce.” I meet his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” he carefully tucks his hand inside his pocket. 

“No offense, but I didn’t know concern was part of your job description.” I let out my sarcasm. I must behave, I know that I must be respectful towards him, after all, he has the power to kick me out without blinking. He is Aaron fucking King and I am just an ordinary girl. 

By the time I realise my mistake, his look towards me changes. He doesn't flinch. “Stupidity is contagious. I’d prefer it not spread through my company.” I bite back a sarcastic smile. “Well, at least your compassion is consistent.” There it is. He is the one who brings out the worst side in me. 

“Don’t drive that death trap again.” his words almost feel like a taunt, the moment he has been desperately waiting for.  “I wasn’t planning to,” I snap.

“You’re not driving at all,” he says, already walking away. “My driver will take you.” I blink. “Wait, what?” I stand back completely astonished. But he’s already gone, barking something into his phone as though my life is another item on his schedule.

Thirty minutes later, Aaron King’s black BMW pulls up to the curb outside. I stand frozen as the driver calls my name, and half the office watches from the windows with thinly veiled curiosity.

I don’t want to get in. But I do.

Because somewhere between the lipstick on my mirror and the dented bumper, I’ve started to wonder just how alone I really am.

The car ride is smooth. Too smooth. The windows are tinted, the leather cold beneath my palms. I sit rigidly, feeling like I’m trespassing on a life far more composed than mine. When I arrive home, I ask the driver to wait. I step inside with caution, flipping on all the lights and heading straight for the mirror.

Still clean. But the silence feels wrong again. Off.

I check the bedroom. The kitchen. Everything’s locked. Nothing disturbed. Until I get to the mailbox. There, nestled among the bills and catalogs, is a plain white envelope. No stamp. No return address.

Just my name, scrawled in neat black ink. I rip it open with trembling fingers. Inside is a photograph. It's me. Sleeping. My blood runs cold.

The image is recent—last night, judging by my hair and the sheets. The angle is from inside the room, above my bed. Like it was taken from the ceiling, or some hidden camera.

At the bottom, in red pen, is one sentence: “You should’ve told me about him.”

I don’t breathe.

I don’t blink.

Because I know exactly who he is talking about, Aaron King. And I think I just made a mistake bigger than I can undo.