Chapter 22 – The Lookalike
994 Words
The club wasn’t open yet.
But Camille knew how to get in.
She pressed her hand against the side alley door—painted black, just like everything else about this place—and knocked three times. The air around her was sharp with city frost and something more primal: the tension of being hunted. Or maybe of choosing to be.
A moment passed. Then the door creaked open.
Julian stood on the other side.
He wasn’t dressed to host. He wore a fitted gray sweater and jeans, his hair tousled like he hadn’t slept. For the first time, he looked… real.
“I figured you’d come back,” he said.
Camille stepped inside without asking. “How?”
“You always come back when you're unraveling.”
His voice was calm. Measured. But his eyes followed her like he expected her to detonate.
The club was hollow without the music—like a monster without its heartbeat. Empty couches. Shadows hanging heavy in the corners. And a silence so thick it made her ears ring.
“I need the security tapes,” she said.
Julian arched a brow. “Is that all you came for?”
“Don’t start,” she snapped. “I know someone was in my apartment.”
“Was it Damien?”
“No. Or maybe. I don’t know. But someone tampered with my camera. Someone who looked like… me.”
That gave him pause.
He walked behind the bar, poured a neat shot of something amber, and slid it toward her. “Drink. You’re shaking.”
“I’m not here to drink.”
“Then at least sit down.”
Camille did, perched on the edge of the barstool like she might flee at any moment.
Julian pulled out a tablet from beneath the counter and keyed in a password. The screen lit up with grainy footage of hallways, velvet booths, and the faint silhouettes of bodies dancing.
Camille leaned in. “Rewind to last week. The night I stayed late with Damien.”
Julian narrowed his eyes but obeyed.
They watched the footage in silence—her and Damien flirting in a dark booth, laughing, whispering things only shadows heard. Then a break in the feed. Static. A long black pause.
And when it resumed—
Camille stared, mouth dry.
It was her. Walking the hall. Dressed in black. Same build. Same posture.
But the eyes were all wrong. Cold. Empty.
“Pause,” Camille whispered. “Zoom in.”
Julian tapped the screen.
Her double stared directly into the camera.
And smiled.
Camille’s blood ran cold.
“That’s not me,” she whispered.
Julian didn’t speak.
“Do you know her?” she asked.
He shook his head slowly. “I know of her.”
Camille turned toward him, her voice sharp. “What the hell does that mean?”
“She’s been seen before. In the club. In the background. Always watching. We thought she was a trick of the light. A glitch. But…” He looked at her with something like fear. “She’s been following you.”
Camille stood. “Why?”
Julian's mouth twitched, but not in amusement this time. “Because she wants to be you. Or maybe she is you. The version you try to bury.”
“That’s psychotic.”
He stepped closer. “You’re in a dangerous place, Camille. This club, these men—you’re not just playing a game anymore. You’ve opened a door you don’t know how to close.”
Camille backed away. “I’m not crazy.”
“I didn’t say you were.” His voice lowered. “But you’re not far.”
She left before he could say more.
---
Outside, the city greeted her like an unwelcome guest. Lights blurred. Horns screamed. And somewhere behind her, she was sure someone was watching again.
She checked her reflection in the windows she passed.
Every time, her heart leapt.
Was that her? Or her?
By the time she reached her building, her hands were trembling.
Inside her apartment, she found a single item on her bed.
Her red silk scarf.
The one she lost weeks ago.
Folded perfectly.
With a note beneath it, written in that same black marker.
"I LOOK BETTER IN RED."
Camille screamed.
It echoed off the walls like a gunshot.
She tore the scarf apart, shred by shred, until it was nothing but threads between her fingers. Then she dropped to the floor and sobbed.
---
It was hours before she could move.
When she did, it was to call the one person she hadn’t yet.
Not Archer. Not Julian. Not Damien.
Marcus.
Her husband.
The line rang five times before he answered.
“Camille?”
His voice was warm. Familiar. Her past.
She closed her eyes. “I need to talk.”
There was a pause.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” she said. “Not even close.”
---
They met at a diner just outside the city. Public. Neutral. A place where ghosts didn’t follow.
Marcus looked good. Too good. Button-down shirt, no ring, easy smile. He had moved on. But not far.
“You look tired,” he said.
Camille stirred her coffee. “You look like you sleep well.”
He sighed. “Cam—”
“Why did you do it?” she interrupted.
“Do what?”
“Suggest an open relationship. Destroy us.”
He leaned back. “I didn’t think it would. I thought it would give us freedom.”
“You gave me abandonment.”
Marcus looked genuinely pained. “I never meant to hurt you.”
She blinked at him. “Then why does it still bleed?”
He reached for her hand.
She pulled away.
“I’m being followed,” she said. “By someone who looks like me.”
His face paled.
She waited.
And then, for the first time in months, Marcus told her the truth.
- Writer
