There’s a sound grief makes when it hasn’t fully landed. It’s not a cry. It’s not a scream. It’s that echo in the back of your throat when your brain knows something’s wrong, but your body hasn’t caught up yet. That’s the sound Anaïs made as she stared at the picture of Cassian tied to that chair, blood streaking his temple like a warning.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t cry.
She just sat there—phone in hand, heart stuttering, every muscle in her body locked tight with a fear so deep it felt ancient.
Maris didn’t say a word. She just watched her. Waited.
Anaïs finally exhaled. “This isn’t just Daniel trying to scare us anymore. He’s crossing lines.”
“You think he’s still alive?” Maris asked quietly.
Anaïs’s voice was barely a whisper. “That message—‘you should’ve stayed dead’—it wasn’
