Three - Who are you ?

Alessandra's POV

Friday came too fast.

The guards trailed behind me, carrying my luggage, but my feet faltered as I passed Alex’s door.

I shouldn’t stop. Should just keep walking. But I couldn’t.

She was my other half. And I wouldn’t be seeing her for a while.

I opened her door and headed to the walk in closet l. She stood in front of the mirror, shirt clutched in her hands, her back stiff. Shoulders drawn in. She wasn’t just looking at herself—she was searching for something no one else could see.

I cleared my throat.

She jerked, body reacting before her face did. The shirt was yanked over her head in a single, seamless motion. Too fast. Too natural. She’d done this before.

For the smallest fraction of a second, something flickered in her expression—worry, maybe. Then it was gone, buried beneath that familiar wall. Cold. Indifferent. Unreadable.

"What are you doing here?" The words held nothing. No warmth. No curiosity.

"I wanted to tell you I was leaving."

"You’re telling me because I’m supposed to care?"

"Because I didn’t say goodbye last time."

"Get out."

I should’ve walked away. But I didn’t.

I hadn’t touched her in years. Not since we were kids, when she slipped into my room in the middle of the night and curled against me. She never told me why. She didn’t have to. I just held her, let her breathe against me.

That was the last time.

Since then, all I’d had was this version of her. Frozen. Unreachable.

I turned back and hugged her.

She flinched. Went still. Her arms twitched at her sides, fingers curling and uncurling like they wanted to move but didn’t know how.

"Get off me and leave my room."

And that’s when I saw it.

In the mirror.

Beneath her shirt.

Red. A slow-moving stain. A slash.

"Are you—?" My voice barely made it out. I reached for it, for her, but she moved.

Her fingers clamped around my wrist, wrenching me off her with enough force to send me stumbling back. She shoved me through the doorway.

"Don’t touch me ever again."

The door slammed in my face.

I exhaled sharply, pressing my fingers to my temples.

Alex had flinched. But not from pain.

She stopped showing pain a long time ago.

The bile burned in my throat, but I swallowed it down, forcing my feet to move.

Just repress and you’ll live.

Mom wanted you to live.

I repeated the words like a prayer, like they could settle the war inside me.

The sunlight hit my face as I stepped outside, but it didn’t warm me.

Jeremy was already there, leaning against the car, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"You do know I’m not your chauffeur, right?" He flicked an invisible speck of dust off his sleeve. "You shouldn’t keep me waiting."

"I was—"

"Get in." He cut me off, shoving off the car. "The sooner we leave, the sooner I can go have fun."

I wanted to kill him. I could picture it so clearly—my hands around his throat, watching the arrogance drain from his eyes.

But the Godfather would have my head for it.

Repress. Let them walk all over you

I opened the car door, but something made me hesitate.

An instinct. A prickle at the back of my neck.

I looked back And I saw my father, Standing on the balcony, watching me.

Smiling.

Not a polite smile. Not the kind you give in passing.

A full-blown, teeth-baring grin.

Like he knew something I didn’t.

He hadn't smiled at me in over 15 years

A chill slid down my spine, slow and deliberate, sinking into my bones.

Alex wasn’t with me. She wasn’t with him either.

But his eyes never left mine, he was smiling at me.

I quickly got into the car with Jeremy and he drove off, The car was silent till we stopped at a sleek glass tower.

"So what are we doing here?" My arms were crossed, my voice flat.

Jeremy barely spared me a glance. "You’ll be staying here for a while."

Not we. You.

A frown tugged at my brow. "I thought you lived in a manor, not a penthouse. And why did you just say ‘you’?"

He exhaled sharply, already bored with the conversation. "The house is undergoing renovations. This—" he gestured to the sleek glass tower in front of us "—belongs to my brother."

I stilled. "Brother?"

"Best friend," he corrected. "Like a brother to me. He doesn’t mind housing you for a while, especially since I’ll be away on business after dinner tomorrow."

That made even less sense. But then again, nothing about this engagement did.

Of course, he was running. Just like I would if I could.

I should’ve questioned it—demanded a better explanation—but my father would hear about it. And if he heard about it, I’d regret it.

My nails dug into my palm, grounding me. "Understood." My voice was barely above a whisper.

Jeremy nodded, already half turned toward the elevator. He didn’t bother saying anything else as he led me inside, showed me to my room, and disappeared without a word.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence settled in, thick and unfamiliar.

Then I saw it.

A black box sat on the dresser.

I hesitated before lifting the lid.

The engagement ring caught the light, sparkling like it belonged in a museum. Flawless. Expensive. Cold.

I slipped it onto my finger.

And just like that, I felt the weight of it.

Not just the ring—the reality.

The choice that had never really been mine.

I forced myself through the motions. A bath. Sorting my things. Climbing into bed. But sleep never came.

I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, the thoughts pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t shake.

Twisting. Suffocating.

Until exhaustion finally won and suddenly I was back there,16 years ago

*I was yanked out of sleep, ripped from the warmth of my bed.

Hands on me. Shaking. Urgent.

I barely had time to blink before I saw her—

A woman drenched in red.

Not red. Blood.

It clung to her dress, streaked down her arms, smeared across her face.

I should have screamed. Should have scrambled away, kicked, fought—something.

But I didn’t move.

Because it was my mother.

Her hands trembled as they cupped my face, leaving sticky warmth in their wake.

“Alessandra,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Listen to me.”

Her grip tightened, her nails digging in just enough to make me flinch.

“It doesn’t matter what they say. Be the last. Be the weak link. Let them stumble on you. It’ll hurt—” her breath hitched, a choked sound, “—but you’ll live.”

Her eyes burned into mine, frantic and pleading.

“And I want you to live.”

Something inside me cracked.

Her gaze snapped past me, to the other side of the bed.

“Where’s Alex?” Her voice sharpened. “Alessandra!”

The room spun.

My heart pounded, breath coming in short, panicked gasps.*

I bolted upright.

Darkness.

Silence.

Just my bedroom. Just a dream.

Except my hands were shaking. My face was damp. My pulse roared in my ears.

I wiped at my cheeks, chest rising and falling too fast, trying to pull myself back.

Then I heard the crash . A sharp, shattering sound, followed by a heavy thud.

My pulse spiked. my body was probably still caught between sleep and reality. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I was still dreaming.

Then came that shattering again , the groan. Low, pained. Then… nothing.

I strained to listen, but the silence that followed felt too thick, too deliberate. The kind that didn’t belong.

Something was wrong.

The air smelled strange—metallic, sharp.

Blood.

I forced myself to move, peeling back the covers, pushing my feet onto the cool floor. My fingers closed around the only thing nearby that could be a weapon—a candle holder, heavy and solid in my grip.

Each step toward the door felt slower than the last.

Downstairs, the darkness stretched out, swallowing the space whole. My eyes adjusted, and the outline of the room came into focus—a mess of shattered vases, broken picture frames, the massive TV screen split through the center.

Then I saw it.

The blood.

Not a smear. Not a few drops. A dark, glistening trail pooling around the body sprawled across the floor.

My breath stilled. The world around me blurred, narrowing down to the man lying there.

Unmoving.

Lifeless.

A bullet between his eyes.

A scream clawed up my throat before I could stop it. The moment it escaped, I knew I’d made a mistake.

A hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back. Pain shot through my skull, sharp and blinding. Then my back slammed into the wall, knocking the air from my lungs.

The fingers around my throat were unforgiving, squeezing, crushing. My hands shot up, clawing at the grip, desperate for air.

"Please—"

The hold didn’t loosen.

Then I saw his eyes.

Not wild. Not angry.

Empty.

Cold, hollow gray, staring at me like I wasn’t a person—just a problem to be erased.

When he finally spoke, his voice curled around me like smoke.

"Who are you?"