Beneath the Mask

Strings of obsession

Sophie’s POV

I sat frozen in James’s office, the stack of documents glaring up at me like a taunting accusation. Emails sent from my account—emails I never wrote—carefully crafted to paint me as a traitor. My fingers trembled as I flipped through them again. The metadata might have cleared me, but that didn’t erase the bitter truth: someone was out to destroy me.

The question gnawed at my mind relentlessly: Who could hate me this much?

The name Richard surfaced almost instantly, like a shadow that never truly left. My ex-fiancé, a man as charming as he was vindictive. The same man who, in his final outburst, swore he’d make me pay for leaving him. Could he have gone to such extremes? He had the resources, the connections, and—worst of all—the motive.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the thought, but it clung stubbornly. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Of course, it’s him,” I muttered to myself. Who else could it possibly be?

Time blurred as I left James’s office and drove home. My mind was so clouded with theories and dread that I didn’t even register the drive. When I finally looked up, I was seated at my kitchen table, staring blankly at the wall.

The buzz of my phone startled me. I blinked and glanced at the screen. Fiona.

“Hello?” My voice was hoarse.

“Sophie, where the hell are you?” she snapped, her tone sharp with urgency.

I frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? Are you serious? Did you even check your schedule today?”

Panic surged through me as I snatched my planner off the counter. My heart sank when I saw the glaring reminder: Private concert with James – 9 PM.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, my stomach flipping.

“You’re late!” Fiona hissed. “Your fans are waiting, Sophie. And don’t even think about bailing. You cannot miss this show.”

Adrenaline flooded my system as I scrambled to get ready. I threw on a simple black jumpsuit, grabbed my signature yellow dress and mask, and bolted downstairs. A sleek black car was already waiting for me.

I barely had time to breathe as the driver sped through the city. A makeup artist in the backseat worked quickly, brushing and painting me into Clara—the version of myself I could only dream of being. By the time we arrived at the venue, I was dressed in the yellow gown, my signature black net mask concealing most of my face except for my lips.

The roar of the crowd hit me the moment I stepped out of the car. Their voices rose in unison, calling out my stage name.

“Clara! Clara! Clara, we love you! You’re the best!”

I took a deep breath, steadying the storm inside me. I wasn’t Sophie here. Sophie was fragile, broken, and haunted by her past. Clara, on the other hand, was confident, untouchable and adored by thousands of people.

As I stepped onto the stage, I scanned the audience. Thousands of faces lit up in excitement, yet my eyes instinctively searched for one: James. But he wasn’t there.

I didn’t know why that bothered me, but it did.

The show went on, my voice carrying through the air, but a part of me felt detached. I kept glancing toward the entrance, hoping to see James stride in with his usual commanding presence. But he never came.

When the show ended and the crowd’s cheers faded into the night, he was still nowhere to be found.

I was about to leave when something kept me back—a nagging feeling I couldn’t ignore. I told myself it was exhaustion, but deep down, I knew the truth. I was waiting for him.

Midnight came and went. I had packed my things and was about to leave when I saw him from a distance looking totally disoriented.

James stumbled toward me, the sharp scent of alcohol preceding him. His hair was disheveled, his shirt slightly untucked, and his usual composed demeanor was nowhere to be found.

“Hi, Clara,” he slurred, a crooked smile on his face.

I stared at him, my heart pounding. “James, are you okay?”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, his words thick with drink. “But I couldn’t… I couldn’t miss this. I just wanted to see you, even if I can’t see your face. That damn mask.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing against my hand. The contact sent a jolt through me, and I froze.

“What have you done to me?” he murmured, his green eyes clouded but still piercing.

I swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”

“Why do I think about you all the time? Why can’t I stop?” His grip on my hand tightened, and the tension in the air became almost unbearable. “I think I’ve fallen in—”

He didn’t finish. His body went slack, collapsing against me.

Panic surged through me as I struggled to hold him up. “James!”

He was out cold, the overwhelming scent of alcohol making me dizzy. I didn’t know what else to do, so I hailed a cab and took him to a nearby hotel.

After booking a room, I helped him inside, his weight pressing heavily against me. He started to stir, groaning, but only to retch violently. I cleaned him up, my hands trembling as I wiped the sweat from his brow.

When I finally laid him down on the bed, he looked so vulnerable, unlike the man who had yelled at me and treated me like trash just days ago.

I turned to leave, but his hand shot out, grabbing mine in his sleep. His grip was firm, and for some inexplicable reason, I couldn’t pull away.

So I stayed. I sat beside him as the hours crept by, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, wondering why my heart felt like it was tearing itself in two.

By 5 AM, I finally managed to slip out of his grasp and leave.

When I got home, Fiona was waiting for me, her arms crossed. “Where were you all night?”

I ignored her, rushing to my room and locking the door behind me. My back pressed against the wood as I slid to the floor, my heart racing.

His words replayed in my mind as I found myself smiling weirdly, “Why do I think about you all the time?”

I shook my head, forcing the memory away. He was drunk, I reminded myself. It didn’t mean anything. And even if it did, James was drawn to Clara, not me.

And Clara only exists at night, I thought bitterly. He’ll never feel that way about Sophie.

But no matter how hard I tried to convince myself, my heart wouldn’t stop racing.

Just as I was beginning to drift off, my phone buzzed. Groggily, I picked it up. The message on the screen made my blood run cold.

“Why are you blushing? Are you cheating on me?”

My heart dropped. Richard.

I jumped to my feet, scanning my room, then peeking out the window. No one was there.

How did he know I was blushing?

My hands shook as I typed back: What do you mean?

Another message came instantly: “Don’t play games with me, Sophie. I’m always watching.”

I froze, the phone slipping from my grasp. A chill ran down my spine as I realized the horrifying truth.

I wasn’t safe.

Not from James. Not from Richard. And definitely not from the unseen enemy lurking in the shadows.

Panic gripped me as Richard’s words echoed in my mind: “I’m always watching.” I glanced around my room again, feeling the walls close in. Every shadow seemed to stretch toward me, every creak of the floor a potential threat.

How could he know? Was he bluffing, or had he truly been watching me?

I grabbed my curtains and yanked them shut, my breathing ragged. My pulse pounded in my ears as I backed into the corner of my room. My phone buzzed again, the sound slicing through the silence.

“I told you, Sophie,” the message read. “You’ll never escape me. Try, and I’ll ruin everything. You’re mine!”

A lump formed in my throat. My mind raced. Had he been behind the emails too? It fit his MO—calculated, cruel, and aimed to isolate me from anyone who could help.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed again, this time with a call. Not Richard. Fiona.

I answered quickly. “Hello?”

“Sophie, are you okay?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

“I—” My voice cracked. “I don’t know.”

“I’m outside your building. Let me in.”

Relief flooded me. Fiona was back from work. She’d help me think clearly. I hurried to the door, my hands shaking as I unlocked it.

But when I opened it, Fiona wasn’t there.

Instead, a small envelope lay on the ground, addressed in familiar, sharp handwriting: To my dearest Sophie.

My heart stopped as I bent to pick it up. Slowly, I tore it open. Inside was a single photo—me, sitting on my bed just minutes ago, my face pale, my hands clutching my phone.

Scrawled across the back were four chilling words: I’m right here baby.