Episode.5
1209 Words
I didn’t sleep that night.
The photo of Adrian and me haunted me.
We never spoke that night at the gala. I didn’t even notice him then. But in the picture, he was watching me—eyes sharp, face unreadable.
That wasn’t coincidence.
And neither was the phone call.
I replayed it in my head over and over.
“You’re in danger.”
“Stay away from Elijah.”
“The last person who got close to the truth ended up dead.”
They didn’t say Adrian’s name.
But they didn’t need to.
—
By morning, I was jumpy. I skipped breakfast. Avoided the staff. I couldn’t face Darius—not with everything swirling in my head.
I needed space.
I grabbed my coat and headed for the city. Alone.
No driver.
No security.
Just me and the sound of heels clicking on concrete.
I didn’t know where I was going until I got there.
Knight Media Headquarters.
The lobby was all glass and steel. Cold. Intimidating. Darius’s face was on a digital screen behind the desk, frozen mid-speech.
The receptionist blinked up at me. “Mrs. Knight?”
I hated how used to that name I was becoming.
“I need access to the archive floor,” I said quietly.
She hesitated. “I’ll have to check that with—”
I gave her a tight smile. “I have clearance.”
That was a lie.
But I said it like it wasn’t.
Two minutes later, I was on an elevator heading down—past the offices, the conference floors, even past the press department. All the way to B2.
The door slid open with a soft ding.
It was darker down there. Quieter.
The archive room smelled like ink, dust, and secrets.
I found a terminal. Typed Adrian Knight into the search.
Pages loaded.
Press releases. Awards. Speeches. All perfectly polished.
But something was missing.
There were no articles from the three months before his death.
I scrolled faster.
Nothing.
It was like someone cut a clean hole out of his life.
And then I found something strange.
A file labeled: A.K. – PROJECT SAND
It was encrypted.
I tried opening it—denied.
I tried printing—denied.
I stared at the screen, heart pounding.
Project Sand.
I didn’t know what it meant.
But I knew it wasn’t something the world was supposed to see.
Footsteps sounded behind me.
I froze.
“Elena?”
I turned.
Darius stood in the doorway, arms folded.
“How did you find me?” I asked.
“You think I wouldn’t track your keycard after what happened yesterday?”
I stepped back. “You’re tracking me now?”
“Don’t twist this,” he said, stepping closer. “You left the house without telling anyone. After a threatening call. After seeing that photo.”
I said nothing.
He looked past me to the screen. His face changed.
“You found the project.”
“What is it?”
He exhaled, jaw tight. “Something that should’ve been buried.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer.
“Darius,” I said, “I want the truth.”
He stared at me.
Then walked over and shut the screen down.
“You’re not ready for the truth.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Treat me like some fragile puppet. I married into this family. I gave up everything to protect my father. The least you can give me is honesty.”
He looked at me.
And for a second, the mask slipped.
“I lost my brother,” he said. “I watched this company turn it into a headline. I watched my mother spin his funeral into a PR event. And I swore that if I ever found out what happened… I’d burn it all down.”
My chest went tight.
“So what happened?” I asked quietly.
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But if Project Sand has answers, I won’t let anyone else touch it until I’m sure who’s lying.”
“And you think I’m one of them?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
The way he said it—quiet, almost tired—stung more than any insult he could’ve thrown.
He reached into his pocket and held out a flash drive.
“If you want the file, take this,” he said. “But once you see it, you can’t go back.”
I stared at it.
Then took it.
He nodded once.
Then left without another word.
—
Back at the house, I waited until midnight to plug it in.
No one was around.
No cameras. No staff. Just me and the dark hum of curiosity chewing through my chest.
The file opened slowly.
It was a single video.
No title. No timestamp.
Just grainy footage of Adrian Knight standing in a boardroom—arguing.
I turned the volume up.
A woman was shouting off-screen.
His voice came through, raw and urgent.
“This isn’t journalism. It’s control. You’re using people, Diana. You’re breaking them—”
“It’s power, Adrian,” Diana’s voice snapped. “This is what legacy looks like.”
“No. This is a machine. You’re building a lie, and one day, someone’s going to uncover it—”
“And when they do,” she said coldly, “they won’t live long enough to tell the story.”
The screen cut to static.
I sat there, stunned.
She said it like a fact. Like a promise.
Adrian knew. He saw something. And he tried to stop it.
That was months before his death.
Suddenly, it all made sense.
The missing files.
The whispers.
The crash that “took him too soon.”
It wasn’t an accident.
And Diana Knight wasn’t just a mother grieving her son.
She was hiding something.
Something deadly.
—
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
I picked it up, heart hammering.
This time, I didn’t speak first.
The voice came through, distorted.
“We warned you.”
I stood up.
“You shouldn’t have watched the video.”
I looked out the window.
No one there.
“You think this is about your father’s scandal?”
I swallowed. “Who are you?”
“You’re in the middle of a war, Elena. You just haven’t picked a side.”
Click.
The line went dead.
—
I grabbed my coat.
I had to warn someone. Elijah. Darius. I didn’t even know who I trusted anymore, but I couldn’t just sit there and wait to be next.
I opened the front door—
And froze.
Someone was already there.
Standing in the driveway.
Dark hoodie.
Black gloves.
Face hidden.
I stepped back into the house and reached for my phone.
But before I could dial, they moved.
Fast.
Right up to the door.
Pressed something to the glass.
I looked down.
It was a photograph.
Slipped under the doorframe.
I picked it up with shaking fingers.
Another picture of Elijah.
But this time, he wasn’t talking to anyone.
He was bleeding.
Pinned against a car.
Eyes half-shut.
The photo was fresh.
And scrawled on the back, in black ink, were four words:
He should’ve stayed away.
- Writer
