🩷Beneath The Surface🩷

Chapter Three

Beneath the Surface

The scent of maple and cinnamon pulled me from sleep.

For a moment, I forgot where I was. Forgot the last few days. Forgot the camera in the hallway, the stranger in my bed, the way his eyes lingered when he thought I wasn’t watching.

I sat up slowly, brushing sleep from my eyes.

Liam was humming.

The sound drifted through the bedroom door—low and tuneless, like he was trying out a melody he hadn’t fully committed to. I recognized it after a few seconds. It was an old pop song from the early 2000s. He’d once mocked it for being “radio trash.”

But now he hummed it like it meant something.

I slipped out of bed and padded into the hallway, pausing just before the kitchen. The light was soft, golden through the blinds, and there he was—back turned, sleeves rolled up, flipping French toast on the griddle.

His hair was still damp from a shower. He wore a T-shirt that clung to his shoulders and pajama pants I hadn’t seen in years.

“Good morning,” he said without turning around.

I froze.

He hadn’t heard me. I was sure of it. I hadn’t made a sound.

Still, he set a plate down on the island with a practiced ease, smiling at me like we’d been doing this every Sunday for the past decade.

“I thought you deserved breakfast in peace,” he said. “Didn’t want you lifting a finger today.”

My throat felt tight. “Thanks.”

He handed me a cup of coffee—just the way I liked it. Light cream, no sugar. Even Liam used to get it wrong half the time.

“I remembered,” he said, almost proudly.

I sipped it, the warmth grounding me. “Yeah. You did.”

He leaned against the counter, studying me. “You okay?”

I nodded.

He tilted his head. “You sure?”

His voice was gentle, coaxing. Patient.

Too patient.

I looked at the plate—two pieces of French toast dusted with cinnamon, a side of strawberries cut into heart shapes.

Liam didn’t know how to use a paring knife like that. I was the one who prepped the fruit.

“You’re full of surprises lately,” I said carefully.

He chuckled. “I guess I’m full of a lot of things.”

I didn’t answer. I just sat, slowly, letting the silence bloom between us.

And he let it. Like he wasn’t in a hurry. Like he could wait forever.

That was the first real crack in the morning: Liam never waited for anything.

---

He took his time in the shower. I could hear the water running overhead, steady and unhurried.

I counted the seconds.

When I hit two hundred, I moved.

I slipped into the bedroom, pulled the drawer open in my nightstand, and took my phone from where I’d hidden it beneath old receipts and a worn paperback.

The screen lit up with a single notification.

Jordan: Check this. Pulled from last night. Timestamp 2:41 AM.

There was a link to the cloud storage he’d set up for the surveillance. My thumb hovered, heart thudding so loud it drowned out the hum of the house.

I tapped it.

The clip loaded fast. Low-res but clear enough. The den. The flickering light from the fireplace. The man sitting on the couch.

My husband.

Or the ghost of him.

He wasn’t watching the fire. Wasn’t watching TV.

He was still. Utterly still. Hands folded on his lap. Staring straight ahead.

Not blinking. Not fidgeting. Just sitting.

I dragged the cursor forward, jumping ten minutes. He hadn’t moved.

Another ten. Same.

The timestamp rolled past 3:00 AM, then 3:10.

And then—just as the clock ticked past 3:12—he smiled.

Not big. Not wide. Just the faint curve of lips, like he was pleased with something only he understood.

Then, just as slowly, he stood and walked toward the kitchen—right where I’d be in the morning.

My hand was shaking.

Another message buzzed through.

Jordan: That’s not sleep. That’s surveillance technique. He’s watching for patterns. Waiting. Measuring.

I pressed the phone to my chest, as if that would steady me.

What are you waiting for?

I listened for the water upstairs. Still running.

It bought me maybe five more minutes.

I sent a single reply:

Me: Do you think he knows? About the cameras?

Jordan: He’s trained. Act like he’s dangerous. Assume nothing is safe.

I swallowed hard, shoved the phone back into the drawer, and forced myself upright.

By the time he came down—hair damp, towel slung over his shoulder—I was back in the kitchen, smiling like I believed every lie this house had ever held.

I handed him a glass of orange juice and leaned casually against the counter, as if I hadn’t just watched him stare into a fire like he was waiting for the world to burn.

“You remember that trip we took to Charleston?” I asked lightly.

His eyes lit with instant recognition. “Of course.”

I smiled, soft and nostalgic, hiding the snare in my voice. “You remember the little inn we stayed at? The one by the water?”

He nodded without hesitation. “The one with the ivy on the walls.”

There was no inn.

We never went to Charleston.

It was a vacation I used to daydream about during his late nights and angry moods—a place I told myself we’d visit once things got better. A fantasy I never said aloud. Not even once.

Still, he kept going. “You wore that yellow sundress the first morning. We had breakfast on the balcony.”

I stared at him.

He was describing the dream I’d had three years ago.

The one I never told him about. The one I scribbled in a journal I kept locked in my closet, now missing since the day of the accident.

He was smiling, easy and warm, like he believed the words he was saying.

Like they were real.

“Best coffee I ever had,” he added.

I let out a soft breath and nodded, pretending I shared the memory. “It was a good trip.”

He leaned in and kissed my forehead, lingering just long enough to make my skin crawl.

Then he grabbed his phone and headed for the living room, calling over his shoulder, “Let me know if you want to plan another one sometime.”

I watched him go.

Once he was out of sight, I turned back to the sink and gripped the edge hard enough that my knuckles turned white.

He hadn’t just studied my life. He’d gotten inside it.

And now he was rewriting it from the inside out.

---

I pretended to fall asleep first.

He lay beside me for a while, his breaths calm, too even. I counted the space between each one until the rhythm blurred together and faded into silence.

Then I heard it—soft, deliberate movement. The rustle of sheets. The shift of weight.

I cracked one eye open, barely a sliver.

He was sitting up.

The moonlight framed him in silver, casting his profile into something eerily serene. He looked down at me for a long time, unmoving, like he was memorizing something.

Or waiting for it to change.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too deep.

His hand twitched once on the blanket between us. Then he stood.

And just like that, he left the room.

I waited a beat.

Then two.

When the silence held steady, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the hallway, pressing my back against the wall. The monitor Jordan installed was a small black dot in the corner of the ceiling, near the crown molding.

The light blinked once.

He was watching.

I lifted my eyes to the camera—barely, just enough.

The hallway stretched into a quiet void. The kind of silence that wraps itself around your neck if you let it.

My phone buzzed under the mattress.

I slipped back into the room and checked the screen.

Jordan: He didn’t go to the bathroom. He’s in the den again.

I tapped out a reply with trembling fingers.

Me: He just stood over me. Watching. I think he’s studying me like a target.

There was a pause. Then another message.

Jordan: You need to remember something, Celeste.

He’s not your husband.

He’s the man sent to erase you.

I stared at the words.

And I finally let myself feel it—the sharp, undeniable truth settling like a weight in my chest.

I thought I was the one playing along.

But maybe… he’s been letting me think that all along.