Chapter 3: Names that burn

The envelope was waiting on the floor when Camela woke up. She didn’t hear anyone knock, nor footsteps. Just silence, and this white envelope staring up at her. It hadn't been there the night before. Slowly, she bent down and picked it up with shaky fingers.

There was no stamp, no return address, and no seal. Only two words were written in perfect handwriting across the front:

“Camela Castellano”

Her fingers trembled. She almost dropped it. “No,” she said out loud.

She tore it open. Inside was one line, written in blood-red ink:

“You wear my name like it’s poison. But it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”

Her chest tightened, and her palms began to sweat. She whispered, “He knows where I am.”

Camela paced the room in panic and fear. Just then, Cynthia came in, locking the door behind her.

“What’s wrong?” Cynthia asked.

“You didn’t open the door for anyone, right?”

“No,” Camela replied. “But someone still got in.”

Camela handed Cynthia the envelope. Cynthia’s jaw tightened as she read it. “That name again.”

Camela turned to the mirror. The lipstick warning from yesterday had vanished—cleaned away. But the letter was proof that he had been inside again.

“Calm down,” Cynthia said, checking the hallway through the peephole. “I checked the perimeter this morning. There’s no sign he was here.”

“He doesn’t leave signs,” Camela whispered. “He leaves scars.”

Cynthia sighed. “You’re not wrong.” She pulled out her phone. “I got a message from an encrypted account. Whoever sent it knew your room number. That means someone from the force is talking.”

Camela looked at her. “He’s paying them, isn’t he?”

“Probably. And now I’m thinking… maybe we’re the only ones who still believe you’re not his.”

That morning the sheriff—Sheriff Hudson came to the safehouse to take Camela to the police station again. There were more reporters outside now.

Flashes. Cameras.

“Miss Siegel!” someone shouted.“Do you deny marrying Vincent Castellano?”

“Are you on medication?”

“Why are you hiding if you’re not guilty?”

Camela ducked her head.

Inside, the detective had a new file for her to sign. “What’s this?” she asked.

“Just an update on your statement,” Harland replied.

She scanned the form; her name had changed. Camela C. Castellano

“What the hell is this?” she demanded, her voice rising.

He looked uncomfortable. “According to public records, the marriage was filed and processed weeks ago.”

“I never signed anything!”

“Your father did. As your guardian.” Detective Harland interrupted

“I’m not sixteen!” she yelled.

“The papers were backdated. And your signature… is on them.”

Camela shoved the file away. “That’s not my name. That name burns.”

Harland folded his hands. “We’re trying to help you. But the world sees you as his wife now.”

Angrily, Camela left the interrogation room. The police officers guarded her outside to avoid the reporters and chaos outside. She and Cynthia drove back to the police safehouse.

Camela sat across from her father in the police safehouse meeting room. His suit looked expensive—untouched by stress, as if her life wasn’t falling apart outside those walls.

“Why did you do it?” she asked.

He blinked. “Camela, I don’t know what…”

“You signed the marriage papers. You backdated them. You gave him rights over me.”

“I did what I had to do,” he said coldly. “For our family. For the city.”

She slammed her palm on the table. “You sold me, Dad. Like a piece of property.”

“You were going to marry someone eventually.”

“Not a man who locks women in rooms and calls it love.”

His eyes twitched. “He’s powerful. And I needed that alliance.”

“You traded my life for your reputation.”

He didn’t deny it. She stood up, turning her back to him

He called out, “He’ll protect you more than I ever could.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks in disbelief as Camela walked out and returned to her room at the police safehouse.

Cynthia slammed the apartment door behind her, breathless. “We’ve been compromised.”

Camela stood up from the couch. “What?”

“Someone inside the department leaked your location.”

Camela’s eyes widened. “He knows I’m here?”

“He knows. But now… someone is helping him.” Cynthia replied.

Cynthia pulled out her phone and opened a message from an anonymous number.

“You can’t protect her. She belongs to the Castellano name now. The Fox always takes back what’s his.”

Cynthia paced. “They’re calling him The Fox in the newspaper now. Some think it’s a joke. But it’s not. He’s in their heads.”

Camela whispered, “That’s what he does. He changes what people believe.”

They sat in silence until a knock came at the door. Sheriff Hudson entered.

“You need to see this.” He slid over a folder.

Camela opened it. Inside were bank transfers, dates, names, and signatures—money funneled from Castellano accounts to Mayor Siegel.

Over six years. Not months. Years.

“This wasn’t a one-time trade,” she said softly.

Cynthia looked up. “Your father’s been selling parts of the city to Vincent’s family since you were a teen.”

Camela closed the folder slowly. “So I was just the final piece—the last payment.”

Her hands curled into fists. “That name. His name… It’s in everything.”

Camela locked herself away with her thoughts in the bathroom and turned on the faucet.

Splash. Splash.

She looked up, and in the mirror, fog began to rise as steam filled the room. Then, words began to appear, written on the glass from inside.

“Say it. Say my name.”

She stumbled back, and the words vanished. Gasping, she ran out of the bathroom. Cynthia met her halfway, weapon drawn.

“He’s in the building.”

“How do you know?”

“He left me a message,” Camela whispered. “In the mirror.”

“Impossible.”

Camela grabbed her arm. “You think this is all in my head?”

“No,” Cynthia said. “I think we’re already too late.”

That night, Camela couldn’t sleep. She locked every door and checked every window. Cynthia slept on the couch, gun nearby.

Camela went to the bathroom to wash her face. She looked up, and the mirror was fogged. There was no writing this time, just her face. Until it wasn’t—until his reflection appeared behind hers.

She turned around. The room was empty

The next day, Cynthia turned on the TV. Camela sat with a blanket around her shoulders. The news headline made her heart stop:

**“Mayor’s Daughter Missing or Married? Secret Wife of Vincent Castellano Discovered.”**

Her face was on the screen, with Vincent—from the “wedding” she never consented to. They’d released the photos: the priest, the ring, her dress. And her frozen expression, she couldn’t look away.

“They think it was real,” she whispered.

Cynthia shut it off. “It’s part of the plan. He’s using the media to trap you. If people believe you’re his… they’ll stop helping.”

“I need to change my name.”

“You already did,” Cynthia said quietly. “But he still owns it.”

Camela remembers the ceremony that sealed her fate without her choice. They called it a “private ceremony.” She stood frozen as she recalled it—white silk, her wrists in gloves, and her voice silenced by fear. Vincent had taken her hand and pressed his lips to it.

“You don’t need to speak,” he whispered, smiling at the priest. “She’s shy.”

She tried to pull away but he gripped harder. The priest kept reading and the rings were slid on. Camela attempted to scream, but no sound escaped. Vincent leaned in close, just before kissing her cheek.

“You’re mine now, in God’s eyes,” he said. “And soon, in yours.”

That day, she carved the name “Castellano” into the underside of her bed frame—not to remember, but to remind herself who she needed to run from.

Still frozen, Camela snapped back to reality

Later that night in the police safehouse, Camela heard it.

A knock. Soft.

Then again, slower this time.

Knock. Knock.

She moved quietly to the door and looked through the peephole. No one was there. She backed away, but another knock came—from the bedroom window.

She turned quickly. The window was locked, curtains drawn, but a small slip of paper was pushed through the crack in the frame.

She walked toward it slowly, her heart pounding. She picked it up. It simply said:

“Look under your bed.”

Camela dropped the paper. “No… no, no, no.”

Cynthia rushed in, gun raised. “What happened?”

Camela couldn’t speak. She walked slowly toward her bed, got down on her knees, and saw it: scratched into the wood beneath, in sharp, angry letters:

“MRS. CASTELLANO”

And next to it, her handwriting from months ago. “I hate you.”