Aria's POV
I run toward the screaming.
"Aria, stop!" Damien chases after me but I don't listen. Someone needs help. Someone's hurt.
The screams are coming from the east wing. I sprint down the red-lit hallway, my heart pounding, following the sound of pure terror.
A door stands open. Inside, a young woman in a maid's uniform is pressed against the wall, shaking and pointing at something on the floor.
I look down and my stomach lurches.
It's a photo. But not just any photo.
It's me. Sleeping in the bed upstairs. Tonight. The timestamp shows fifteen minutes ago.
Someone was in my room. While I was awake and talking to Damien just one floor below.
"How—" I can't finish the sentence.
Damien appears beside me, gun drawn, already barking orders into his radio. "Full security sweep. Someone's inside the compound. Find them now!"
The maid is still crying. "It was just sitting there. On my cleaning cart. Like someone wanted me to find it."
"Did you see anyone?" Damien demands.
She shakes her head. "Nobody. I swear. I was alone and then... then that picture was just there."
Damien picks up the photo carefully, studying it. His face goes hard. "This was taken from inside her room. Someone bypassed every security measure I have."
"Or someone on your team took it," I say quietly.
He looks at me sharply but doesn't argue. Because he knows I'm right. Either his security is useless, or someone he trusts is betraying him.
"Get her to the safe room," Damien tells his second-in-command. "No one in or out until I clear the compound."
"I'm not hiding in a safe room!" I protest.
"Yes, you are." His tone leaves no room for argument. "Someone's playing games with us. Testing our defenses. Making sure we know they can reach you whenever they want."
"Then let them come!" I'm shouting now, hysteria rising. "Let them show themselves instead of leaving creepy photos and threatening texts. I'm tired of being hunted by ghosts!"
Damien grabs my arms, forcing me to look at him. "If they show themselves, they'll kill you. That's how this works. They stay invisible until you're vulnerable, and then they strike. So you're going to the safe room. Now."
He's right. I hate it, but he's right.
They take me to a room deep underground. Steel door. No windows. Monitors showing every camera feed in the compound. It's a bunker designed to survive anything.
Including my own family trying to kill me.
Two guards stand outside. Damien stays with me, checking his phone constantly for updates from his team.
"Nothing," he mutters after twenty minutes. "No signs of forced entry. No unauthorized personnel. Whoever took that photo is either gone or—"
"Still here," I finish. "Hiding. Watching."
The thought makes my skin crawl.
"Why me?" I ask suddenly. "If this is about money, why not just kidnap me for ransom? Why all the photos and messages and games?"
Damien's jaw tightens. "Because it's not about money. It's about fear. Someone wants you terrified. Paranoid. Not trusting anyone."
"It's working."
"Good." He looks at me seriously. "Paranoid keeps you alive. Trust gets you killed."
An hour passes. Then two. Finally, Damien's team reports the compound is secure. No intruders found. No breaches detected.
But we both know that means nothing. Someone got in. Someone got close.
They escort me back to my suite. Different room this time—Damien's orders. He's moving me every night now so no one can predict my location.
The new bedroom is smaller but heavily monitored. Cameras in every corner. Guards outside. Panic button by the bed.
"Try to sleep," Damien says from the doorway. "I'll be right next door. If you need anything—"
"Will you tell me the truth about something?" I interrupt.
He tenses. "Depends on the question."
"The text said you benefit from keeping me alive. How? What do you get out of this?"
For a long moment, he doesn't answer. Then: "The Vandermeres are paying me five million dollars to protect you for six months. If you die, I don't get paid."
"That's it? Just money?"
His expression shifts—something raw and painful crossing his face. "No. That's not it. But the rest isn't something I can explain. Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll run. And running will get you killed." He starts to close the door. "Sleep, Aria. We'll talk more tomorrow."
"Damien, wait—"
But he's gone. The door shuts. Locks click into place.
I'm alone again.
I change into the pajamas someone left on the bed—soft, expensive, nothing like what I'm used to. Everything here is expensive. Perfect. Cold.
I miss my tiny apartment. My lumpy couch. The diner where everyone knew my name.
I miss being nobody.
Finally, exhaustion wins. I crawl into the massive bed and close my eyes.
Sleep comes faster than I expect, pulling me under like dark water.
I dream about fire. About crying. About hands reaching for me in the darkness.
Then something wakes me.
Not a sound. Not movement. Just... a feeling. That animal instinct that screams danger.
I open my eyes slowly, carefully, trying not to move.
Someone is standing in my doorway.
A figure backlit by the hallway light. Tall. Still. Watching me.
My heart stops. I can't breathe. Can't scream. Can't move.
The figure takes a step into the room.
Then another.
Coming closer to my bed.
I reach for the panic button but my hand won't cooperate. I'm frozen. Paralyzed by fear.
The figure moves into the moonlight from the window.
And I see her face.
It's a woman. Beautiful. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Wearing an expensive red dress.
She looks exactly like the woman from the photograph Mr. Pierce showed me.
Vivienne Vandermere. My supposed mother.
"Hello, Anastasia," she whispers, her voice soft and strange. "I've waited so long to see you again."
She sits on the edge of my bed, reaching out to touch my face.
Her hand is ice cold.
"Don't be afraid, darling. Mother's here now. Mother will take care of everything."
Her smile is beautiful and terrible at the same time.
"I'm so sorry for what I did to you. For having you taken. For all those years you suffered." Tears stream down her perfect face. "But you're home now. You're safe. And I promise—I promise—no one will ever hurt you again."
Her hand moves to my throat. Still gentle. Still cold.
"Because if I can't have you," she whispers, her smile never faltering, "then no one can."
Her fingers start to tighten.
And I realize with absolute horror that she's not here to welcome me home.
She's here to finish what she started twenty-three years ago.
She's here to kill me.