Chapter 12: Shadows of the Past
1189 Words
The photograph sat on the kitchen counter like an accusation. Camille couldn’t stop staring at it. Her own face, so peaceful in sleep, so unaware—violated by the cold gaze of a hidden lens.
Her husband. The handwriting on the back—looping, elegant, possessive—was unmistakable. She’d seen that scrawl on anniversary cards, on quick notes pinned to the fridge, on the letters he wrote her when they were happy.
But this wasn’t love. This was something else.
Julian hovered by the counter, arms crossed, his gaze flickering between her and the photo. Archer leaned against the wall, chewing the inside of his cheek like he was fighting the urge to say something reckless.
“He’s watching you,” Julian said at last.
Camille didn’t move.
“I thought he agreed to the open marriage,” Archer added. “Didn’t he suggest it?”
“He did,” she murmured, voice low. “But I think… I think he didn’t believe I’d actually take him up on it.”
Julian frowned. “You told him about us?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I didn’t tell him anything.”
Archer snorted. “Maybe he followed you.”
Camille turned sharply. “He travels. He’s always gone. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s not keeping tabs on you,” Julian said.
She hated how calm he sounded. Like this was just another problem to solve. Like her life hadn’t been fractured into glass shards with a single, crimson envelope.
“I need to go to the police,” she whispered, though she knew how laughable that sounded.
“And tell them what?” Archer asked. “That your husband sent you a creepy photo? That he’s… watching you sleep? You think they’ll care?”
Julian shot him a look. “Don’t.”
Camille rubbed her temples. Her skin felt too tight, her breath too thin.
“What if it wasn’t him?” she said suddenly. “What if—what if someone’s trying to make me think it was him?”
Julian stepped closer. “You think it’s the woman from the footage?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Archer straightened. “What if they’re the same person?”
Camille blinked. “What do you mean?”
He met her gaze, serious now. “What if the woman who looks like you… is someone your husband sent? Or created?”
The word created made her stomach twist.
Julian’s expression darkened. “A doppelgänger?”
Camille shivered. “That’s not possible.”
“You’ve already crossed into dangerous territory, Camille,” Julian said quietly. “Nothing’s impossible anymore.”
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She jumped.
A message.
Unknown Number: Are you enjoying your new friends? I am.
She nearly dropped the phone.
Julian took it from her, scanned the message, then handed it to Archer.
“Block the number,” Julian said.
Camille did.
But the dread didn’t go away.
---
That night, Camille showered with the lights on. Every creak in the pipes made her jump. She left the bathroom door open, half-hoping one of the men was still around, even though they’d both left an hour ago—reluctantly.
She stepped out of the steam and into her bedroom, wrapping herself in a towel.
Then froze.
The closet door was open.
She never left it open.
She inched forward, heart hammering.
Inside, nothing. Clothes. Shoes. Dust.
And at the back—her wedding dress.
She hadn’t seen it in months. She didn’t even remember keeping it. But there it was, gleaming white against the shadows, like a ghost.
Pinned to the lace bodice was a note:
“Still your favorite look.”
Her breath caught in her throat.
This wasn’t just stalking.
This was memory warfare.
A violation of her past.
She ripped the note off and stuffed it in the drawer. Slammed the closet door shut.
The next morning, she didn’t go to work. She called in sick. Stayed curled on the couch with a blanket and her laptop, trying to piece together what she’d missed.
She started googling her husband. She wasn’t even sure why.
What she found made her blood freeze.
A forum post. Buried. Anonymous.
"My husband asked for an open relationship. Then he started… copying me. Everything I did, he mimicked. Every new habit. Every friend. Then I caught someone who looked just like me in our bedroom. And he said, ‘I just want to understand you better.’ I ran."
There were no replies. No follow-up. The user had deleted their account.
But Camille couldn’t stop staring.
Had he done this before?
Was she his experiment?
A knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
Her head snapped up.
Another knock.
She opened the door without thinking.
And staggered back.
Damien.
Only he looked nothing like the man she remembered.
His eyes were bloodshot. His jaw bruised. His shirt was wrinkled, and there was dried blood on his sleeve.
“Damien,,” she gasped. “What—what happened to you?”
He walked inside without a word, limping.
Camille locked the door behind him. “Are you okay?”
“No,” he rasped. “He came for me.”
Her stomach dropped. “Who?”
Damien looked at her, and she saw real fear in his eyes for the first time.
“Your husband,” he said. “He found me last night. Asked questions. About us. About Archer. About Julian.”
Camille clutched the edge of the table. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing,” Damien said. “I lied. I told him we weren’t involved anymore.”
Camille sat down. “He attacked you?”
Damien touched the bruise on his jaw. “He wanted me to understand something. He said, ‘Camille isn’t yours. She’s mine. She just forgot.’”
Camille felt like she couldn’t breathe.
Damien lowered his voice. “Camille… I think he’s building something. Around you. A version of your life. Controlled. Watched. You said someone looked like you? I think… he’s using her.”
“For what?” she whispered.
Damien looked her dead in the eyes.
“To replace you.”
---
By the time Julian and Archer arrived later that evening, Camille was already packing a bag.
“No more games,” she told them. “I need out.”
Julian nodded. “You’ll stay at my place.”
Archer added, “We’ll take shifts. Watch the building. No one gets to you without going through us.”
It was strange how quickly the roles reversed. Her once-flirtations now stood as her bodyguards. And she let them. Because for the first time, she wasn’t sure she could survive this alone.
Damein had left with a warning.
“He’s obsessed. Not just with you. With the idea of you.”
That night, in Julian’s apartment, she stared out the window and whispered into the dark:
“What happens when someone wants to become you?”
No answer came.
But the shadows outside the glass seemed to shivers.
- Writer
