Next to You, Then Gone

Elara Voss stretched her hand across the bed, expecting to feel the solid warmth of Damien’s body like she had every morning for the past two years. Instead, her fingers met cold sheets. She frowned, eyes still heavy with sleep. “Damien?” Her voice came out soft and raspy in the quiet penthouse. No answer. She sat up slowly, pushing her messy dark curls away from her face. The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a golden glow over their luxurious bedroom. Everything looked normal. His black shirt, the one she loved wearing was still draped over the chair where she’d tossed it last night after he pulled it off her. A small smile touched her lips. Maybe he was in the kitchen making that terrible coffee he always insisted tasted better than the fancy machine they owned. Or doing his usual early workout in the gym downstairs. “Baby, if you’re trying to surprise me with breakfast again, I’m begging you not to burn the toast this time,” she called out, sliding out of bed. Her bare feet touched the cool marble floor as she walked toward the kitchen. The penthouse was silent. Too silent. The kitchen was spotless. No coffee brewing. No smell of burnt toast. No tall, ridiculously handsome man waiting to pull her into his arms and kiss her until her knees went weak. The smile on Elara’s face slowly faded. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand. No messages. No missed calls. Not even a simple “Good morning, beautiful” text he usually sent when he stepped out early. Her stomach tightened. “Damien, this isn’t funny,” she whispered. She moved through the apartment, heart picking up speed. Living room—normal. His laptop was closed on the coffee table, right where he left it. Her sketchpad still lay open beside it, the half-finished drawing of their future house staring back at her. They had talked about that house again last night. Damien had pulled her onto his lap, arms wrapped tightly around her waist, and whispered against her neck, “Next year, it’s ours. A real home. You, me, and whatever crazy life we decide to build.” Elara had laughed and kissed him deeply, believing every word. Now the memory made her chest ache. She pushed open the door to his home office. The room was dim, blinds half-drawn. Papers were slightly scattered across the desk; unusual for someone as meticulous as Damien. His expensive watch, the one she had saved for months to buy him on his last birthday, sat abandoned beside his keyboard. That was when she saw it. A single drop of blood on the edge of the dark wooden desk. Small. Dry. But unmistakable. Elara’s breath caught in her throat. Her hand flew to her mouth as a wave of dizziness hit her. “No… no, that can’t be right.” She stepped closer, heart hammering. She touched the spot lightly, as if it might disappear. It didn’t. Her fingers trembled. “Damien!” she shouted, voice cracking. She ran through the apartment, checking the bathrooms, the gym room, even the balcony. Nothing. She called his phone. It went straight to voicemail. “Damien Cross, I swear if this is some kind of sick joke…” Her voice broke. “Please call me back. I’m scared.” She tried his best friend, Marcus. No answer. His assistant, Lena. Straight to voicemail. Even the private driver who usually took him to meetings didn’t pick up. By now, panic was flooding her system. She sank onto the edge of their bed, clutching his pillow that still carried his scent—woodsy, expensive, and so painfully him. Memories flashed through her mind. The night they met at that charity gala two years ago. She had been a struggling graphic designer, awkwardly hiding in a corner. He had walked up to her in a perfectly tailored black suit, intense gray eyes locking onto hers, and said, “You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here. Same.” Their first date. Their first kiss in the rain outside her tiny apartment. The night he told her he loved her—really loved her—while they danced slowly in this very living room with no music playing. He promised he would never leave her. Not after everything she had been through with her toxic family and her sister’s constant betrayal. And now he was gone. Elara looked at the clock. It was almost 10 AM. Damien was never unreachable for this long. She forced herself to breathe. “Okay. Think, Elara. He wouldn’t just disappear. Something happened.” That was when her phone buzzed on the bed. An unknown number. She snatched it up and opened the message with shaking fingers. "Unknown" : Stop looking. He’s already dead. Next to you was never safe. Walk away if you want to live. Elara stared at the screen, blood turning to ice in her veins. A second message followed immediately. "Unknown" : Welcome to the game, Elara.