Ties and Tangles

Chapter 5 – The Puppeteer

"Arzheal", I whisper into the cold off the night.

My stomach drops.

He angles his head, his lips twisting into a shape that’s not entirely a smile—something malicious.

Run.

I dash, my legs working intensely, my heart pounding against my chest. The night envelops me as I navigate shadowy streets, my frantic breaths escaping from my throat. My environment becomes indistinct. Streetlights rush by like specters, yet the noise trailing behind me is clear—footsteps. Heavy. Steady. Unhurried.

He’s following me.

I choke on a sob and push harder. My lungs scream for air, my legs threaten to buckle, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop. The narrow alleyway ahead offers an escape—maybe. I slip into it, pressing my body against the cold brick wall, my hands clasped over my mouth to muffle the ragged breathing.

Silence.

A trickle of sweat slides down my spine. Maybe I lost him. Maybe—

A shadow spills into the alley’s entrance. My stomach twists violently as a slow, deliberate voice reaches me.

“You can run, dolcezza... but I always find what’s mine.”

Terror detonates in my chest. I spin and sprint, bursting out onto an open street. Lights. People. The distant hum of life. A marketplace.

Hope immediately flares.

I stumble into the crowd, gasping, wild-eyed. “Please!” I choke out. “Help me! Someone—please!”

Faces turn, blank and unconcerned. A woman clutches her child closer and steps away. A vendor frowns, his eyes skimming my disheveled form before dismissing me. My voice trembles. “He—he’s going to—”

A hand clamps onto my wrist making me scream.

“Shhh,” Arzheal coos, his voice a chilling contrast to the iron grip searing my skin. “Enough of this little tantrum. Let’s go home dolcezza.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” I thrash, twisting, but his hold tightens.

A man steps forward. “Hey! You. Let her go.”

Arzheal sighs, turning lazily to face him. “Stay out of this.”

“She doesn’t look like she wants to go with you,” the man says firmly. “Let. Her. Go.”

Arzheal’s fingers slacken for a fraction of a second. I rip free, stumbling backward. My chest heaves. But the moment our eyes meet again, something inside me ices over. His gaze isn’t angry. It’s amused. Amused.

“Later, dolcezza.”

Then he’s gone, swallowed by the dark night.

My legs give out. The man who intervened kneels beside me. “Are you okay?”

I’m shaking so hard I can barely respond. I suck in a desperate breath and lie. “I’m fine.”

By the looks on his face, he doesn’t believe me. “Who are you?”

The truth lodges in my throat. “I’m just a girl from the countryside.” It's the least I can say since my father's taken away my identity.

He pulls out his phone, hesitating. “You shouldn't be out here alone. I’m calling the police.”

My mouth opens in protest, but then I nod. What choice do I have?

The night only got worse. The plan was to lie to the police so that they'd drop me off at a random neighborhood. That's ruined cause I'm starring right into the eyeballs of Officer Dean, dad's old friend.

She glares at me, a hint of disappointing darting through her pupils as she escorts me to the car.

"Mr. Mesh, thank you for stepping in. I really appreciate", Officer Dean retorts.

He nods in response, a look of deep concern planted on his face as me stares at me through the glass window. I don't lose eye contact either.

Come to think of it, he looks an awful lot familiar. Like I'd seen him in a dream I couldn't remember, more like in a dream I refused to remember.

The car leaves but at least I got his name. Apparently knowing names might be the only reason I'd be dead soon.

The officers speak softly, their voices obscured by the weight of issues I don't understand. I settle into the back seat, embracing my body, my fingers pressing into the bruises forming beneath my skin. The city's flashing lights shimmer on the glass like shadows, reflecting my empty stare.

"You knew his name, Abby. It wouldn't have gotten us any close but at least it was something", Office Dean says.

"I don't want to talk about it", I reply, a slow realisation that I could have been killed without a even a story.

"You shouldn't have left either," she says. I stay quiet. The last thing I want is to provoke a proper conversation.

“…He kept you away to protect you.”

I blink. “What?”

The officer in the passenger seat turns slightly. “Your father. He wasn’t keeping you away out of hatred.” He pauses. “He was trying to keep you alive, Abby."

The world tilts. My fingers tremble. “That’s not true. He—he never wanted me.”

The officer’s voice is softer now. "Do you even realise what could have happened today, huh Abby? You could have died just like your mother", she yells.

"It wouldn't matter. I don't have an identity anymore", I say briefly and coldly, accepting I was truly less than flesh and blood.

Then I hear I it.

“He was afraid of losing you. Like he lost your mother, Abby. It's not hate, it's fear. You have an identity Abby— as his heir, and he will do anything to protect you, no matter the cost."

My chest tightens, the words cut into me like blades. The knot in my throat rises, heavy and intolerable.

As the vehicle halts, the estate looms in front of me. Not long, the doors swing open, and I step out on wobbly legs. The main entrance groans, disclosing a silhouette in the faint light of the hallway.

Dad.

His face carries an expression I don’t understand—something vulnerable.

“Abby,” he says, his voice heavy with emotion.

I drop my eyes, swallowing hard. My voice is barely a whisper. “I'm sorry, Dad.”

And just like that, the fragile pieces of our shattered past shift—an unsteady, trembling step toward something neither of us ever thought possible.

A second chance.