CHAPTER 2
1010 Words
The streets were unusually quiet as Kamila made her way home, the Miami humidity wrapping around her like a damp shroud. Her blouse clung to her back, and sweat trickled down her spine. She clutched her bag close, eyes darting to every shadow, the slap of her heels against cracked pavement echoing like a metronome for her racing pulse.
A faint tang of rain hung in the air, mixing with the gritty scent of exhaust and city smoke. Somewhere far off, a police siren wailed—a thin, lonely cry that quickly faded into the heavy night.
She turned the corner and saw him.
Josh was slouched against the brick wall beside their building, a half-empty bottle swinging loosely from his hand. His shirt was rumpled, buttons uneven, and his hair stuck up in drunken spikes. Even from several feet away, the sour bite of alcohol rolled off him in waves.
Kamila’s stomach knotted.
Josh wasn’t a threat to her—he was too sloppy, too lost in his own poison—but she’d seen what he was capable of. She’d heard the shouting through thin walls, the crash of breaking glass, the dull thud of fists meeting flesh. She’d seen his wife shrink back at the sound of his key in the lock, shoulders drawn tight like a woman always bracing for impact.
“Evenin’,” Josh slurred, lifting the bottle in a crooked toast.
She didn’t answer. Didn’t slow down. The less air they shared, the better.
The building’s lobby light flickered overhead as she pushed through the door, throwing her shadow in jerky fragments across peeling wallpaper. The air smelled faintly of mildew, with a thread of fried onions drifting in from somewhere down the hall. A television blared canned laughter behind one of the closed doors.
She climbed the stairs, fingers brushing the sticky banister, her body slowly relaxing with each step—until she reached her floor.
Her apartment door was ajar.
Kamila froze. The gap between door and frame was no more than an inch, but it was enough to send her heartbeat roaring in her ears. She always locked it. Always.
She set her bag silently against the wall, her mind racing. She could go back down, find help, call the police—but the stubborn part of her, the part that had survived worse, anchored her feet to the floor.
She nudged the door open with the tip of her shoe.
The apartment was dim, thick with stillness. The air felt different, as if it had been disturbed and left to settle. Her gaze swept the living room—and stopped.
A man was sitting on her couch.
Tall. Sharp lines in a black tailored suit that caught the faint hallway light. A gold watch gleamed on his wrist, its face winking once before settling into shadow. His posture was relaxed, but there was nothing casual about him. He sat like someone who owned the room.
Her breath hitched.
“Who the hell are you?” Her voice cut through the silence like glass.
He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he reached for the crystal glass on her coffee table, swirling the amber liquid inside before taking a slow sip. He set it back down without looking away from her, his movements smooth and deliberate.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said at last, his voice low and even, with the kind of calm that could be more dangerous than anger.
Her grip tightened on her bag strap. “Get out. Now.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Is that really how you greet your fiancé?”
The word hit her like a physical blow.
She blinked at him. “My what?”
“Fiancé.”
Her jaw tensed. “You’ve got the wrong person.”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving hers. “I don’t make mistakes about things like this.”
Something cold coiled in her gut. Memories she had buried for years clawed their way to the surface—her parents whispering behind closed doors, the night strange men came with heavy black bags, the crash that had stolen their lives. She pushed them back down, locking her face into something unreadable.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“That’s a long story,” he said, rising to his full height. He was taller than she’d realized. “One I’d rather discuss somewhere… less exposed.” His gaze flicked toward the door behind her.
She took a step back, instinct urging her toward the hallway. His hand moved—not touching her, but close enough to make her aware of just how easily he could. She caught the scent of his cologne: subtle, expensive, not the kind you bought at a mall counter.
“Who sent you?” she demanded.
He smiled. It wasn’t friendly. “You’ll know soon enough, Kamila.”
The way her name rolled off his tongue made her skin crawl.
Without another word, he stepped past her and into the hallway, his presence shrinking only in distance, not weight. She didn’t breathe until she heard the elevator doors close.
Inside, the apartment felt colder, emptier—yet it carried the echo of him. She shut and locked the door, leaning against it as her knees finally gave out. Her hands trembled, betraying the fear she refused to show him.
Fiancé.
The word looped in her head, each repetition more absurd and more terrifying than the last. She had no fiancé. No boyfriend. No man who could possibly claim her like that.
Her eyes drifted to the coffee table. The crystal glass sat where he’d left it, condensation forming a faint ring on the wood. It was the only physical proof he had been there. Somehow, that made it worse—like he’d left just enough to haunt her.
She didn’t know who he was. She didn’t know how he’d gotten in. But she knew one thing with unsettling certainty: this was only the beginning.
- Writer
