The Devil’s Warning
692 Words
I didn’t sleep that night.
Every sound—every creak of the house, every gust of wind—felt like him. Like Dominic was still here, hidden in the shadows, watching me.
And maybe he was.
I locked my bedroom door. Twice. I even shoved a chair under the handle, though I doubted it would stop someone like him. A man who didn’t knock, didn’t ask, didn’t need permission to take what he wanted.
The scariest part?
It wasn’t just fear that twisted in my stomach. It was curiosity. An unwanted thrill. His voice replayed in my head, low and steady, “Your life changed the moment I stepped into this room.”
God help me… I believed him.
The next morning, sunlight poured into my bedroom like nothing had happened. Like the world was still the same.
It wasn’t.
I walked downstairs, nerves buzzing, expecting chaos. Gunfire. Screaming. My father flipping the entire estate upside down in panic.
But everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
The guards stood at their usual posts. No one mentioned a break-in. No one looked concerned.
Had I imagined him?
“Elena.” My father’s voice cut through the silence like a knife. He stood at the base of the stairs in his usual suit, perfectly pressed, eyes unreadable.
“Morning,” I said cautiously, studying his face.
“Come. Breakfast.” He turned without waiting for me to follow.
I sat across from him at the long table, pushing scrambled eggs around my plate while he sipped espresso like this was just another Thursday.
“You didn’t sleep well,” he said without looking up.
I tensed. “I heard something last night.”
He nodded slowly. “The storm caused a short in the power. We’ll have the generator checked.”
That wasn’t what I meant, and he knew it.
“Someone was in the house,” I said quietly. “In the library.”
His eyes finally met mine.
For a second—just a second—I saw it.
Fear.
Then it was gone, replaced by the cold steel he always wore when things got messy.
“Don’t be dramatic,” he said. “No one got past security.”
I stared at him. “You’re lying.”
“Elena.” His tone darkened. “You’ll let this go. Now.”
“Why?” I challenged, heart racing. “Because if I keep asking questions, you’ll have to admit he was here?”
His jaw clenched. I saw the flicker again. Not just fear. Guilt.
So it was true.
“You know him,” I whispered. “Dominic Moretti.”
The sound of his name made something shift in the room.
My father set his cup down slowly, folding his hands in front of him.
“There are men in this world, Elena, who are born from fire. Dominic Moretti is one of them. He doesn’t want money. He doesn’t want power. He wants control. Over everything. Everyone.”
“Then why is he after me?”
He paused.
“Because I stole something from him,” he said at last. “A long time ago. And now he thinks taking you will even the score.”
The words hit me like ice water.
I stood, heart hammering. “You used me as a pawn.”
“I protected you,” he snapped. “You don’t understand the kind of man he is.”
“Maybe not,” I said, voice shaking, “but I’m starting to understand the kind of man you are.”
I turned and walked away before he could say another word.
Later that day, I found a note on my pillow.
White paper. Black ink. Elegant handwriting.
“You looked beautiful in the dark. Next time, wear red. I like red.” — D
I stared at it, my fingers trembling. He’d been here. In my room. Again.
Somehow, despite every locked door, every armed guard, every warning… he always found a way in.
I should’ve screamed. Should’ve told someone.
Instead, I pressed the note to my chest and felt my pulse quicken.
What was happening to me?
- Writer
