The creak hangs in the air, lingering long after the door stops moving, and I'm still frozen, my fingers dug so deep into the mattress that I swear I can feel the metal springs beneath. The crack widens to an inch, then two, and the gray shadow solidifies—tall, slouched, the outline of messy hair visible even in the dim light filtering through the window. It's not Sarah, that much is clear—her frame is smaller, slighter, nothing like the broad-shouldered silhouette before me. My breath catches in my throat, a half-sob of relief and new terror mixing together—Ethan. His snores had been a lie, a perfect cover, just like mine. But what I don't know is that he heard every single word of my call to Mr. Henderson—every detail about the $20 million withdrawal, the white rose account, the secret transfer. He's not just suspicious; he knows everything. He's been awake this whole time, leaning against the hallway doorframe, listening intently, drinking in every word, his eyes sharp with calculation, not just greed. He's smarter than I gave him credit for—smarter than his lazy demeanor suggests. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, just stands there in the doorway, the silence between us thick with unspoken tension, thicker than the rain outside. He's already plotting, already figuring out how to turn this to his advantage, how to let me keep thinking I'm one step ahead, while he waits for the perfect moment to strike. I force my fingers to relax, slow my breathing to a shallow, almost imperceptible rhythm, and let my face go slack—fake confusion, fake drowsiness, like I just woke up, like I have no idea why he's standing there. I think he's just suspicious, just caught me acting odd, not that he's heard every secret I've fought to keep. I can't let him grow more suspicious, can't let him see the rage and fear boiling beneath my skin. If he suspects more, he might dig deeper—maybe check my boot, maybe search the mattress, maybe even confront me. He's greedy, yes, but I now realize he's far from stupid; he's patient, and patience makes him far more dangerous. He'll bide his time if he thinks he's at risk, not lash out blindly. That's the mistake I almost made—underestimating him.
"Rosie?" His voice is rough, gravelly, like he just woke up—perfectly acted, down to the slight hoarseness that comes with sleep. There's no trace of the cold calculation I can't see, just a feigned grogginess, a soft amusement that feels genuine. He's mastered the art of pretending, better than I ever could. He takes a step forward, his bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud that echoes in the silence—a deliberate, slow movement, meant to seem unthreatening. The light catches his face now, and I see his eyes—dark, yes, but he's softened them, masking the greed and calculation with a lazy warmth, his pupils normal, not dilated. He's smiling, a slow, gentle smile that almost reaches his eyes, and he scratches the back of his neck, feigning confusion so well I almost believe it myself. "What are you doing up so early? Heard you moving around—thought you were sleepwalking or something." His gaze flicks to my boot, then to the mattress, then back to my face—but it's a casual glance, not a suspicious one, like he's just noticing my movements, not searching for proof. But I don't know—this casualness is a trap. He already knows where the phone is, where the checks are; he's just testing me, seeing if I'll panic, seeing if I'll slip up and confirm his knowledge. My heart skips a beat, just like he wants it to, and I shift slightly, pressing my boot against the floor, covering the hidden compartment with my toe—exactly the reaction he's hoping for. I yawn loudly, stretching my arms above my head like I'm still half-asleep, laying on the fake drowsiness thick. "Just… thirsty," I mumble, my voice thick and groggy, matching my fake expression. "Woke up, wanted a glass of water. Didn't mean to make noise." I keep my eyes downcast, pretending to stare at my feet, but my peripheral vision is locked on him—his hands, his posture, any sign that his suspicion is growing. What I don't see is the faint, almost imperceptible smirk he hides when I look away, the glint of triumph in his eyes. He's winning, and I don't even know it. He's letting me think I'm fooling him, while he's the one pulling the strings. He doesn't believe me. I can tell by the way his smile tightens, by the way his fingers curl into fists at his sides. But he doesn't push it—yet. He takes another step forward, the floor creaking beneath his weight, and glances toward Sarah's bed—she's still asleep, her mouth open, a faint snore escaping her lips. Good. One less thing to worry about. "Thirsty?" He repeats, drawing out the word, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "At 7 a.m.? You never wake up this early, Rosie. Not even on work days." He's testing me, probing for cracks in my lie, trying to get me to slip up. I shrug, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand, and stand slowly, my legs feigning weakness, like I'm still sleepy. "Couldn't sleep," I say, my voice softer now, more vulnerable. "Had a bad dream—about the river, about drowning. It scared me awake." It's not a complete lie. The memory of drowning, of the cold water filling my lungs, of Sarah and Ethan's indifferent faces watching from the shore—it haunts me every night. But I twist it, use it to my advantage, let my lower lip tremble slightly, let my eyes glisten with fake tears. Ethan's expression softens, just for a second—his greed is strong, but his ego is stronger. He loves it when I'm vulnerable, when I look to him for comfort, when I'm the naive, foolish Rosie he thinks he can control. "Aw, baby," he coos, stepping closer, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. I flinch slightly, fake shyness, fake relief, and lean into his touch—cold, clammy, repulsive, but I force myself to stay still. His hand lingers on my cheek, his thumb brushing my skin, and I can feel his eyes scanning my face, looking for any sign of deceit. "It was just a dream," he says, his voice softer now, but the greed still lingers in his eyes, like a shadow he can't hide. "I'm here, okay? I won't let anything happen to you." He's lying, and we both know it. He'll let me drown again, let me suffer, let me die—if it means he gets the Carter money. But I smile up at him, fake gratitude, fake affection, and nod. "I know," I murmur, my voice quiet and shaky. "Thank you, Ethan. You're the only one who cares about me." He preens at that, his chest puffing out slightly, and drops his hand from my face. "Of course I do," he says, grinning. "Now, go get your water. I'll make breakfast—eggs, your favorite. We can talk about… us, later. About how we're gonna get through this, now that your parents cut you off." There it is. The real reason he's being nice—the money, the trust fund, the Carter family's wealth. He thinks I'm still the same naive girl who'll beg him for help, who'll hand over everything just to feel loved. He has no idea I'm already one step ahead, that the money will be in my account tomorrow, that I'm already planning my escape. I nod again, forcing a smile, and turn toward the kitchen, my boots hitting the floor softly—no sound from the hidden compartment, no sign of the phone. I glance over my shoulder as I walk, and he's still standing there, staring at the mattress, his eyes narrow, like he's trying to see through the fabric to the checks hidden beneath. I suppress —let him look. Let him wonder. Let him think he's in control. It will make his downfall all the more painful. I fill a glass with cold water from the faucet, my hands still slightly shaking, but my mind clear. Ethan's suspicion is a problem, but not a fatal one—not yet. I need to speed up my plan, move faster than he can anticipate. Tomorrow, when the $20 million hits my account, I'll hire a security team first, then find the safe house—the one on the highest hill in Chicago, the one with reinforced walls and a private water supply, the one I scouted yesterday. I'll move the checks there, move the burner phone, move everything that could link me to my plan. I'll also need to buy supplies—water purification systems, emergency generators, MREs—enough to last me through the flood, enough to outlast Ethan and Sarah. As I take a sip of water, the cold liquid soothing my parched throat, I glance out the window. The rain has stopped, but the sky is still dark, a deep, menacing gray, clouds piling up on the horizon like a wall. The weather report said scattered showers this week, but I know better—I know the rain will come back, harder, faster, endless, until the entire city is submerged. Until the river overflows its banks, until the old buildings collapse, until Ethan and Sarah get what they deserve. I hear Ethan's voice from the living room, calling Sarah's name, his tone sharp now, no longer the fake tenderness he used with me. He's telling her to wake up, telling her they need to talk—talking about me, no doubt, talking about how to get their hands on the trust fund. I smile into my glass, cold and sharp. Let them talk. Let them plot. They're playing a game they don't understand, a game where I hold all the cards, a game where the only prize is survival. I finish my water, set the glass in the sink, and dry my hands on a towel. When I turn around, Ethan is standing in the kitchen doorway, watching me, his eyes dark. "You okay?" He asks, his voice fake again, but I can see the suspicion in his gaze, the greed, the fear. I nod, smile, and walk past him, my shoulder brushing his—cold, deliberate, a silent challenge. "I'm fine," I say. "Just glad you're here." But as I walk back to my room, my hand slips into my boot, touching the hidden compartment, touching the burner phone inside. Safe. For now. But the clock is ticking, the clouds are gathering, and Ethan's suspicion is growing. I have to move fast. Before he figures out the truth. Before the rain comes. Before it's too late.