Part 1 – The Disappearing Act
Amelia stumbled back from the mirror.
The mark on her shoulder was no hallucination. It wasn't imagined in fear or burned into her skin by lust—it was alive. Pulsing faintly, like a second heartbeat. And it didn't stop when she looked away. It throbbed in sync with something she couldn't explain. Like it was reacting to her. Or calling out to someone.
No.
To him.
She wrapped the robe tight around herself and stormed back into the living room, grabbing the manila folder. The photos. The evidence. Something had to make sense. But when she flipped the cover open
Empty.
Gone!!!
Every photograph, every paper, gone. The folder was blank inside, still cold to the touch.
She froze.
This wasn't possible. She hadn't left the room. The door hadn't opened. She'd locked the damn thing twice now. She dropped the folder on the couch and turned in a slow circle, scanning the room.
Then she saw it.
The photo.
One photo was left behind.
It lay face-down on the floor near the window, as if dropped in a hurry. She picked it up, turning it over slowly.
Her throat closed.
Her father. Dorian. And her.
As a child.
She was maybe seven. Standing between them in a white dress. Her father had his hand on her shoulder. Dorian stood just behind them, watching—not smiling, not looking at the camera. Looking at her.
She dropped it like it burned her.
The date scribbled on the back: July 12, 1997.
She wasn't supposed to remember that day. But something shifted in the back of her mind. A hallway. A scream. A locked room her nanny said was "under repair." The scent of rubbing alcohol and blood.
No, no, no.
Her phone buzzed again.
They're watching you.
Amelia backed into the kitchen and flung open every drawer, every cabinet, searching for a camera, a bug, anything. Her hands shook as she tore through cutlery and coffee pods, candles and batteries. Nothing. Nothing.
Then she stopped.
The smoke alarm.
She climbed onto a chair, popped the cover off—and there it was.
A blinking red light.
Not a smoke detector.
She yanked it out and threw it across the room. It shattered like cheap plastic.
Another buzz.
You're not safe there.
She didn't think.
She grabbed her keys, phone, and the photo—just the one—and bolted Down the stairs. Barefoot. Into the night.
Into the fire beneath.
Part 2 – The Drive
The city hit her like a slap.
Amelia stepped out into a humid slap of midnight air, barefoot on wet pavement, silk robe fluttering against her thighs like a fever dream. She didn't care. Let them look. Let them stare. Let the night swallow her whole.
She didn't stop moving.
She didn't stop thinking.
The parking garage under her building was cold and echoing, shadows stretching like claws along the walls. She found her car—her father's old BMW, black and sleek, still smelling faintly of cedar and power.
She slid inside, locked the doors, and sat still.
The photo lay in her lap. Her father. Dorian. And her.
How the hell had she forgotten that day?
She tried to remember what happened after the photo was taken, but her mind came back a blank slate. Except for one thing: the sound of something metal slamming. A door. A scream. Hers.
She started the car. The engine roared to life like it knew she needed escape.
Where the hell was she going?
Anywhere but here.
She peeled out of the garage and hit the wet streets, tires hissing against the asphalt. Her hands trembled on the wheel. Her phone buzzed again, lighting up the passenger seat.
Unknown Number
You need to burn that photo.
She stared at the screen, then at the picture on her lap.
Another text.
If he sees it, it's over.
Amelia tossed the phone onto the seat, heart pounding like war drums. She didn't believe in omens, but tonight the whole damn world felt cursed. She should've thrown the photo out the window. She should've burned it.
But she didn't.
Because she needed proof.
Because deep down—she wanted answers more than she wanted safety.
The city blurred past her windshield, neon and chaos. Then a thought hit her like ice water:
Calder knew about the mark.
She pulled off at the next exit, screeched to a stop outside a closed liquor store, and grabbed her phone. No signal. No Wi-Fi. Nothing.
She tried to call the anonymous number.
Dead tone.
She leaned her head against the steering wheel and closed her eyes.
Then....
A hand tapped the glass.
Her body snapped upright.
A man stood just outside the driver-side window, blurred
by rain.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
It was Dorian.