Chapter 8

Alessa’s POV

Lucius had already gone by the time the house fell quiet again.

We had spoken calmly. I told him the truth without hiding. I told him I did not remember him, or our history, or the life that had existed before the accident. He listened without interrupting, without tightening his grip on my hands or pushing for reassurance I could not give.

He accepted it.

Not eagerly, but patiently, as if time were something he believed would work in his favor if he simply allowed it to pass.

We exchanged numbers again, as though doing it twice might anchor it more firmly in the present. He kissed my forehead before he left and told me there was no rush. That I could take all the time I needed.

I watched him walk away without resistance in my chest, without sadness, without relief.

That absence unsettled me more than fear would have.

Later, alone in my room, sleep refused to come.

I lay still beneath the covers, listening to the sea beyond the windows, watching shadows drift across the ceiling as clouds passed over the moon. My thoughts did not return to Lucius, or to the idea of a future that might include him. They moved instead toward a name I had not spoken aloud since the television announcement.

“Nathaniel.”

I sat up and opened my laptop.

The screen glowed softly in the dark. A photo filled it almost immediately, as if it had been waiting for me. Nathaniel Blackwood stood at the center of a group, his posture confident, his expression controlled. Beside him was another man, his hand resting casually at Nathaniel’s shoulder.

Sebastian.

I stared at him longer than I meant to.

 His smile held ease. He looked like someone who listened more than he spoke, someone who stepped in quietly rather than announcing himself.

I did not know why, but I felt certain of one thing.

Sebastian had been kind to me.

The certainty settled in my chest without evidence, or explanation. I did not question it. I simply accepted that it mattered.

I needed answers.

Not from my grandfather, not from Lucius. Not from the people who loved the version of me they remembered.

I needed answers that belonged to me.

Without thinking through the steps, without planning or hesitation, my fingers moved across the keyboard. I typed a string of characters I did not remember learning. A URL that came to me with the ease of muscle memory.

The screen changed.

The dark web opened.

My reflection stared back faintly from the glass, eyes steady.

“What kind of woman was Alessandra Vanderbilt?”

The question passed through my mind without emotion. I did not frame it as grief or anger or curiosity. It was simply a fact I wanted clarified.

I typed my request.

“Make an existence disappear from the internet.”

I added nothing else, then I waited.

The response appeared almost instantly.

Prodigy: “I can do it. $300.”

My breath caught, not with fear, but surprise. The speed unsettled me. I reread the message, searching for conditions or demands that were not there.

Payment method followed.

Bitcoin.

I checked my wallet.

Over twenty bitcoin sat there untouched, dormant, as if they had been waiting for this moment. I did not ask myself how they got there. I did not question why they existed.

I completed the transaction, then I logged out.

Morning came quietly.

Light filtered into the room. My first instinct was not to stretch or sit up or call for breakfast. I opened my laptop again.

I searched for the name Alessa Vanderbilt, but nothing appeared.

No articles. No images. No archives. No society columns. No childhood photographs.

Alessandra Vanderbilt did not exist online.

I closed the laptop and smiled in satisfaction.

Later, I dressed simply and stepped outside. I wanted air, movement, and the sea. The path toward the cliffs felt familiar now, the sound of waves steadying my steps.

I ran into my grandfather near the terrace.

“I want to take a walk,” I told him.

He nodded and handed me a card.

“Temporary,” he said. “Your old ones were deactivated after the accident.”

I accepted it without comment.

“Thank you, Grandfather,” I said and he smiled.

As I reached the gate, someone called my name.

I turned slowly. I was still not used to it.

The man approaching me moved with warmth rather than urgency. He hugged me without force, cupping my face gently as he pulled back. His expression was open.

“I’m Alaric Hale,” he said. “Eleanor’s husband. Your uncle.”

Grandfather had spoken to him, I could see it in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I began.

He stopped me at once.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “You will remember. And even if you don’t, you are still you.”

I believed him.

Before I could respond, a sleek car, this time BMW 7 series pulled up beside us, loud and fast, cutting through the quiet. The door swung open and a woman stepped out, dressed for night rather than day, then I remembered seeing her before, Verity Hale.

She laughed as she took in the scene, her gaze sharp and dismissive.

“Well,” she said, “the ghost walks.”

She mocked Alaric lightly, then turned back to me with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

“You’ve been keeping our mother awake,” she said. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

Her tone sharpened. “Why did you come back?”

"You have a high taste in cars,” I replied.

“I learn from the best,” she shot back, laughing as if it were all a joke. Then she climbed back into the car and drove off, gravel spraying beneath her tires.

Alaric sighed.

“Pay her no mind,” he said.

I watched the car disappear.

“It’s strange,” I said slowly. “I feel like I’m used to that.”

I did not know why. It simply felt true.

I left the estate not long after and took a cab without giving a destination. The city carried me until I asked the driver to stop in front of a small art gallery wedged between taller buildings.

Inside, I spoke easily with the owner. Conversation flowed without effort. When she mentioned a space upstairs available for lease, something impulsive took hold of me.

I lied.

I said my landlady had thrown me out. I said I worked at a hotel. I said I did not have much money.

She agreed.

Her name was Chloe.

I signed the agreement under the name Evie.

That evening, I returned to the mansion.

Mrs. Rowe was preparing to leave. She hesitated when she saw me, then lowered her voice.

“I’m not supposed to say this,” she said. “I heard Lucius came last night.”

“Yes,” I replied.

She shook her head. “Before the accident...”

She told me that a few days before everything happened, Lucius and I had fought. A serious fight. One that left me shaken.

“Rowan never told me,” I said.

“You asked me not to,” she replied. “You wanted to handle it yourself.”

Later, alone again, I sat with the weight of it.

A fight?

The people who loved me knew different versions of the truth.

And I did not know which one got me killed.