Eva reached Hotel Le Méridien with lungs that burned and a body vibrating in the grip of neurological shock. The world outside was a smear of neon lights and winter fog, but her internal world was focused entirely on the lingering heat on her skin—the phantom brand of Alexander's touch. She pushed the heavy key into the lock of Room 402, her heart thundering with a sound so loud it filled the vacant silence of the hallway.
As the door swung open, she was met with a paralyzing sense of vertigo. The room was not a standard hotel suite; it was a meticulous, haunting recreation of Alexander's study in London, down to the specific arrangement of the leather-bound books and the angle of the paintings. In the center of the room, a wall of high-definition monitors glowed with a cold, blue light, displaying live feeds of every corner of her manor, the corporate boardrooms, and even a GPS tracker on Marcus's phone.
Eva sank into the leather chair, a wave of existential dizziness washing over her. The realization hit her like a physical weight: Alexander had never truly left. He had lived every second with her, listening to her late-night sobs through hidden mics, watching her grief unfold from behind these glowing screens. This discovery triggered a turbulent surge of absolute safety intertwined with a primal dread. She felt like a bird protected in a cage of gold and barbed wire—worshiped, but watched.
On the desk lay a massive black ledger. Eva opened it to find surveillance photos of Marcus meeting with international cartels, and forensic evidence proving the plane crash was a deliberate execution. But it was the small, weathered journal at the back that made her breath hitch.
It contained daily entries addressed to her, written in Alexander's jagged, commanding hand since the day he vanished.
"Day 142: I watched you cry by the window again today. I wanted to shatter the glass, to scream your name until my lungs bled, but the assassins were circling. Forgive me, Eva. My death is the only thing keeping you alive."
Meanwhile, back in the rain-slicked alleyway, Alexander stood over the broken form of Marcus's last guard. His white shirt was splattered with crimson, his eyes reflecting a lethal, serene savagery. He felt no remorse; instead, he felt a bloody sense of purification. He glanced at his phone, seeing through the hotel's security feed that Eva had entered Room 402.
His expression instantly shifted from cold violence to a devastating vulnerability. He touched the screen where Eva's tear-stained face appeared, his eyes closing in a spasm of internal agony. He was consumed by a profound self-loathing for the shadow he had become—a voyeur of his own life—yet he knew this dark vigil was the only way to ensure no hand but his ever touched her again.
Suddenly, Eva's phone rang in the quiet room. An unknown number.
She answered, her voice a fragile thread. "Alexander?"
The voice that responded was not his. It was a distorted, synthesized rasp that oozed calculated malice.
"Room 402 is not a sanctuary, Eva... it is a trap. Get out now, before Alexander locks the door on you forever."