CHAPTER 3-BLUEPRINTS AND GHOST
765 Words
LILA
By Monday morning, the walls felt thinner.
Not literally, this place was engineered like a panic room but emotionally. As if the longer I stayed, the more the veneer peeled back, revealing something unfinished beneath the glass and stone.
I didn’t sleep. Not really.
I dreamed of footsteps that didn’t belong to me, perfume that wasn’t mine, and reflections that blinked before I did.
The design studio at Kade Holdings sat like a brain stem in the center of the building minimalist, all-white, no personal effects. The kind of space where creativity was less about inspiration and more about execution. Fast. Efficient. Controlled.
My project folder was already loaded into the system before I arrived. Floorplans. Mood board samples. Budget files.
And a note:
> “Don’t build beauty. Build something unforgettable. —E.K.”
How poetic.
I logged in, started sketching, and was halfway through my second espresso when he walked in.
Not Ethan.
Someone younger. Casual blazer, fitted shirt, a Rolex with wear on the leather. His smile was sharp. The kind that made you want to ask what he knew and why he wasn’t telling you.
“Lila Vaughn, I assume?”
I stood cautiously. “Depends. Who’s asking?”
He extended a hand. “Max Carter. COO. Ethan’s... translator, most days.”
“Right. The one who actually speaks human.”
He grinned. “That’s me.”
He glanced at my mood board. “Bold. Rich color palette. Dramatic edges.”
“You expected beige and safe?”
“I expected someone scared of taking up space.”
“Well,” I said, looking him straight in the eye, “I don’t design for small men.”
That made him laugh. “He was right about you.”
“Ethan?”
“Mm. He said you’d walk in and start building cathedrals instead of rooms. Didn’t think you’d do it on day two.”
I froze. “Wait—he said that before I even started?”
Max paused.
His smile shifted.
Too late to take it back.
“I thought he only reviewed my portfolio last week,” I said, stepping closer.
Max’s jaw tightened. “Lila—”
“How long has he known about me?”
He exhaled slowly. “Let’s just say Ethan doesn’t ‘discover’ people. He finds them when they’re already part of a plan.”
I felt the ground tilt.
“I’m part of a plan?”
Max looked like a man who wanted to say more but was bound by something stronger.
“I’d be careful with the questions you ask,” he said gently. “Not all answers are safe.”
---
By lunch, I was back at the apartment, searching for ghosts.
I opened every cabinet. Every drawer.
I found:
A bracelet stuck behind the bathroom sink.
An unlabeled key hidden under the cutlery tray.
And behind a loose panel in the bedroom closet… a single torn page from a diary.
It read:
> “He says I remind him of her. But I know he’s lying. I’m not her. I’m not dead yet.”
The handwriting was delicate, precise.
And the initials at the bottom?
A.K.
Again.
I stared at the page, feeling the hair rise on the back of my neck.
There had been someone here before me. And whoever she was… she didn’t leave willingly.
---
That night, Ethan called me into his office.
Same room as the first meeting. Same glass walls. Same expression on his face: amused, clinical, like he already knew what I was about to say.
“I found something,” I said, dropping the torn diary page on his desk.
He didn’t even flinch.
“Who was she?”
He looked up at me, eyes unreadable. “What did the note say?”
“You already know.”
“Then why ask?”
I stepped closer. “You brought me here to replace her, didn’t you?”
His jaw flexed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
He stood slowly, walked around the desk until he was inches from me.
“You want honesty, Lila?” he said softly. “Here it is.”
He leaned in closer than he ever had. Close enough that I could smell him. Leather, something smoky, something dangerous.
“I don’t need a replacement. I need a weapon with a prettier face.”
My pulse stuttered.
He whispered, “Do you still want the truth?”
I nodded, barely.
He tilted his head.
“Then get better at surviving it.”
- Writer
