Chapter five

Jane’s POV

My body was racking with extreme nervousness; five bottles of water later and the tightness in my chest had only learned new tricks. I stared at the phone like it had betrayed me personally, every notification a small pinprick. Then my father’s name glared on the screen.

"You'd better not let me get wherever you are Jane, or else I promise it'll be the last breath you take, you bastard daughter of a whore!" he barked.

The message vibrated my bones. I swallowed hard, the words crawling under my skin like cold ants. He always used the same language when he wanted to make me small and quiet. This time he wanted me gone.

My fingers hovered over the call button, but I didn't call back. Talking to him would only give him more spoils to gloat with. Instead I thumbed Celine’s number, because crying into a cable felt less ridiculous coming from someone who knew how to make it stop being about me for a minute.

“Hello?” Celine answered, loud and bright, like she kept sunrays in her pocket.

“Celine… he—” I couldn’t finish. The breath stuck in my throat.

“Where are you? Jane, you sound broken.” She waited like there was space for me to be honest, so I took it. I told her everything, waking up in that room, the blood, the way Alaric had thrown me away, Dad’s message. There was no dressing it up. There was only bare, hot hurt.

“Come over. Now,” she said. Her voice was business-sharp. “We’ll go to the hotel together. Don’t go alone.”

I told her about the CCTV plan, the only thing I had that felt like a fact instead of rumor. Celine was all in. “I’ll bring coffee and tenacity,” she promised. “You get dressed. Don’t think. Move.”

It felt like moving through syrup, but I did. I crammed my trembling hands into a faded sweater, shoved my hair into a messy bun, and forced myself into the doorway. The lift to the lobby seemed to take forever. My reflection in the mirrored walls looked like an invasion victim in one of those dramatic shows—pale, hair wild, eyes ringed and big. I wanted to disappear.

At the hotel desk, I could already feel the eyes. People loved a scene; they just didn't want to be in it. The clerk looked at my face with that thin pity people offered women who’d been seen at their worst. I kept my voice low.

“Hello, I need access to CCTV footage for last night. Room twelve-oh... I was a guest there. I—I there was an incident.”

He blinked, fingers hovering over the keyboard as if he needed permission to be honest. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Those requests have to go through our security department. Do you have an authorization?”

“No.” My throat closed. “I’m trying to find out what happened to me. I woke up and — I don’t remember,  there are gaps. Please. The footage could tell me.”

He tapped the screen, eyes avoiding mine. “There was a privacy request returned for that footage.” He said it like he was giving me the weather.

“Returned? By who?” I felt the tiny anger flare, the one that wouldn’t let me be small any longer.

“We don’t have the right to disclose who requested it,” he said. Corporate shields. I could taste the false smile like metal.

Celine stepped up, stern as an anchor. “Is there a manager? Now.”

Minutes later a man in a dark suit appeared—too calm, too practiced. He asked a thin list of questions, then said something about protocol. He smelled like expensive soap and excuses. Before I could squeeze another word through my jaw, two men in the hallway moved like shadows and blocked the entrance. One had the kind of posture that made you measure your steps twice. My stomach dropped.

“Ma’am, you can’t be in the CCTV area,” the manager said. “We have to—”

“No,” Celine snapped. “You will give us the footage. Now.”

The manager’s eyes flickered toward the two men and something tightened behind them, a  look I’ve seen before on Alaric's face when he was about to crush something. I felt a prickle at the base of my neck. This was not going well.

“Look,” the manager said quietly, “a request was filed and returned. There’s nothing we can do without legal orders.” He sounded like he had practiced saying it in the mirror.

My breath got small and thin. “I paid for a room. I was robbed. I was assaulted. You expect me to walk away because someone filed paperwork?” My voice cracked. The lobby stopped, suddenly everyone was paying attention in a way that made me feel naked.

The tall man by the door moved. He stepped into the light, and whatever soft cloak of protection the hotel offered slid away. He looked like someone carved out of the night: broad shoulders, short-cropped hair, and a face that refused to be casual. I recognized the shape of his jaw even though my head was foggy, even if  it might have been the same kind of jaw as a dozen polite men, but there was a lean certainty about him.

“Miss Jane Williams?” The man’s voice was controlled, almost neutral. My name on his tongue was not the gentle one my grandfather used; it had an authority that left no room for argument.

“Yes,” I said, so small I could barely hear myself.

He introduced himself—William, and said something about being the manager for a Mr. George. He said it like it was the part of him that did the talking for his employer.

My heart folded. Mr. George. The one I had been trying to find in my head, the shadow in my memory. The man from the hotel. The man from the blood-stained sheets, was this the same room in a different lifetime? Adrenaline punched the air out of me.