Chapter 4

Serena barely slept that night.

 

Curled up on the couch, her back pressed against the armrest, she watched as shadows slid across the floor like silent ghosts.

 

The red envelope lay unopened beside a half-empty wine bottle, but its contents occupied her mind incessantly, refusing to leave.

 

The photo. The necklace. The fingerprint on the drawer.

 

Someone had been in her apartment. This wasn't imagination, nor a coincidence. It was reality.

 

By the time morning broke, and pale light filtered through her blinds, her nerves were raw.

 

She didn't call the police.

 

She couldn't say why for certain. Maybe it was the fear of sounding paranoid. Or perhaps she was desperate to keep this secret to herself, especially because of her public connection to Damien Cole.

 

Instead, she opted for a quick shower, dressed sharply, and headed out for the Cole Foundation's charity fundraiser. Despite her her world being shaken, the world at large did not halt.

 

The event was in a glass-domed ballroom downtown, a place that glittered with old money and polished smiles.

 

Serena entered, wearing the navy-blue gown Damien had suggested. Not because he insisted, but because she wanted to seize control. Dressing the part empowered her, even if just temporarily.

 

As she moved through the crowd, eyes turned toward her, and people whispered. Some smiled, while others didn't hide their jealousy.

 

She spotted Isabelle near the champagne table, laughing more loudly than necessary. Beside her, Aidan stood, looking utterly miserable.

 

Serena's stomach churned violently.

 

Isabelle caught her gaze from across the room and smirked knowingly.

 

"You really believe that dress compensates for your lack of class?" she purred as Serena passed by.

 

Serena paused, her voice cool and measured. "No. But I thought it was easier than fabricating another personality."

 

The smirk vanished.

 

"Besides," Serena added, picking up a glass of champagne, "navy is your color. Too bad you opted for beige."

 

She walked away with her head held high.

 

Thirty minutes into the fundraiser, she was beginning to feel the strain of pretending.

 

Everyone had an agenda. Attention, photos, connections- and Serena had to keep smiling, keep performing.

 

Where was Damien?

 

He was supposed to arrive before the speeches began.

 

Just as she turned toward the bar, a voice behind her greeted, "You're late."

 

Serena froze, anticipating Damien. But it wasn't him. It was Aidan.

 

She turned slowly. He looked unchanged yet diminished, as if time had worn him down.

 

"Not now," she muttered, her eyes scanning the crowd.

 

He tailed her toward the side hallway of the ballroom. "We need to talk."

 

She spun around sharply. "There's nothing left to say."

 

"Is this about revenge? Are you using Damien to get back at me?"

 

Serena stared at him unflinchingly. "Isn't that what you did when you got engaged to my sister two months after cheating on me?"

 

His jaw tightened at her words. "That was a mistake."

 

"So was trusting you."

 

She turned to leave, but Aidan grabbed her wrist, desperate.

 

"Do you even know who Damien really is? Do you think he'll protect you? You don't belong in his world."

 

Serena yanked her arm back fiercely. "Maybe not. But I'd rather pretend at love with someone like Damien than fake loyalty with someone like you."

 

Pulse racing, she walked away. She hated that he still had the power to unsettle her.

 

 

Later that evening, Serena stepped out onto the balcony for a breath of fresh air.

 

Just then, her phone buzzed.

 

Unknown Number: You looked beautiful tonight.

 

Too bad your past doesn't match your dress.

 

A chill swept over her fingers.

 

She scanned the deserted balcony, where the city lights blinked like watchful eyes.

 

Another message arrived.

 

Unknown Number: The necklace isn't the only thing I kept.

 

Serena's hand flew to her mouth in shock.

 

Who could this person be?

 

What else could they possibly have?

 

She rushed back inside, her panic steadily rising.

 

As she navigated through the crowded room, someone brushed against her shoulder.

 

A tall man in a black coat.

 

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

 

But when she glanced at her hand,

 

she noticed he had slipped something into her clutch.

 

It was a folded note,

 

written in the same ominous red ink:

 

"Truth always finds its way home."

 

 

Serena stared at the folded note she held tightly in her hand.

 

The truth always finds its way home.

 

Her stomach turned as the words cut into her like shards of glass.

 

She glanced around the bustling ballroom, but everything blurred.

 

Conversations merged into noise.

 

Faces twisted and smeared together.

 

No one appeared suspicious-but wasn't that precisely the point?

 

This person wasn't just threatening her; they truly knew her.

 

They knew secrets.

 

Secrets she had shared with no one.

 

She slipped into the hallway, her grip tightening around her purse.

 

She needed to leave before she lost control

 

The weight of her secrets, the facade she maintained, was beginning to crack.

 

She entered the women's restroom, locking the stall behind her.

 

Leaning against the door, she opened her purse again and unfolded the note once more.

 

On the back, she found a second line inscribed in finer script:

 

"I remember the girl who hid under the stairs."

 

Her knees gave way; she sank to the floor.

 

That memory was so deeply buried, she hardly believed it anymore.

 

She was nine.

 

Her father had stormed out after a fight with her mother, and she had crawled beneath the staircase, clutching a necklace with a cracked-heart pendant, desperately trying not to cry.

 

No one had been there.

 

No one should have known.

 

Unless-

 

She pressed her hand to her mouth, suppressing the sob threatening to rise.

 

This wasn't just about Damien, or Aidan, or revenge.

 

This was something from long ago.

 

Something far more dangerous.

 

A ghost from her past had returned, and they weren't after her heart.

 

They sought the truth.

 

A truth she hadn't yet uncovered herself.

 

She rose slowly, wiped at her tears, and gazed at herself in the mirror.

 

Her mascara hadn't smudged.

 

Her lips remained painted, like armor.

 

Her expression was composed.

 

But her eves?

 

They betrayed her terror.

 

She flushed the note down the toilet, just in case.

 

She then left the stall, retouched her lipstick, and walked out of the restroom as if nothing had happened.

 

Because whatever this game was

 

she wasn't playing to lose.