Episode 3
1003 Words
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Ariella didn’t sleep.
She tried.
But the anchor tattoo haunted her thoughts like a whisper she couldn’t shake. Her mind kept circling back—back to the night her life crumbled. The night when everything she loved was taken in seconds.
The same night she’d seen that exact ink on the wrist of the man who’d destroyed everything.
And now, that same ink lived on Lucien Blackwell.
It wasn’t possible.
Was it?
She stood from the bed, barefooted, pacing the restlessly through the entire length of her room. The penthouse was quiet. The kind of quiet that made it hard to breathe.
She grabbed her phone. Opened Zara’s monitor again.
Still safe.
Still peaceful.
Still miles away.
Ariella dropped her phone on the bed, went to the window, staring at nothing.
“Who in God's name are you, Lucien?” she whispered.
---
The next morning came like a slap.
Ariella barely made it through her fittings. Three designers. Five dresses. Heels she couldn’t afford to trip in, smiles she couldn’t force.
“You’re tense,” Carla noted.
Ariella blinked. “You would be too if your entire personality was being stitched together by couture.”
Carla sighed. “This isn’t about dresses. It’s about image. The media’s already calling you a mystery. That works for now, but soon they’ll start digging.”
Ariella’s stomach twisted.
“I don’t have a past to dig up,” she lied.
Carla raised an eyebrow.
“Well, let it stay that way.”
---
That afternoon, Lucien surprised her.
Not with flowers. Or diamonds.
But with silence.
He barely spoke during the pre-gala planning meeting. Barely looked at her as they reviewed press packages. Barely blinked when she suggested they tone down the upcoming engagement dinner.
“It’s not about us,” she said. “It’s about spectacle. You’re overplaying it.”
Lucien finally glanced at her.
“And you think the world believes in subtle love stories?”
“I think the world wants authenticity. And right now, we’re selling a fairy tale no one asked for.”
His gaze lingered. “I hired you to be a solution. Not a strategist.”
“I didn’t agree to be your puppet.”
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Then, something unexpected flickered in his eyes.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “We’ll scale it back.”
Ariella stared at him.
That was…easy.
Too easy.
---
Later that night, Lucien left the penthouse.
No word. No reason. Just gone.
Ariella didn’t ask.
But she waited.
Midnight came.
One a.m.
Still, no Lucien.
She gave up and went to the kitchen. She wasn’t used to silence anymore. Her life before had been filled with laughter. Cries. Songs sung off-key.
Now there was only marble and glass and her own thoughts.
She reached for a bottle of wine.
“Bad idea,” a voice said from the shadows.
Ariella froze.
Lucien leaning on the doorway, unbuttoned shirt, hair slightly mussed.
“Are you also a ghost,” she said.
He walked in, barefoot again. Always barefoot, like the floor couldn’t hurt him.
“Needed air.”
“At one in the morning?”
He poured himself a drink. “I visit a grave every week. Tonight was the anniversary.”
Ariella blinked. “Whose grave?”
He didn’t answer. Just drank.
And for the first time, Ariella saw something c***k in him. Not weakness—something deeper.
Wounds. Old ones.
“I lost someone,” he said after a long pause. “And I never found the man responsible.”
Her fingers gripped the counter.
“What happened to them?”
He looked at her.
Then, slowly rolled up his sleeve.
And there it was.
The anchor.
Clear as day.
“This,” he said, “was a promise. The man who killed my sister wore this same mark. A match. A threat. I wear it now to remember that I’m still hunting him.”
Ariella’s blood turned to ice.
She felt like the floor was about to fall away.
“Your sister,” she said softly.
He nodded.
“She was pregnant. Visiting me. Wrong place, wrong time.”
Ariella’s vision blurred.
That night.
The fire.
The screaming.
She hadn’t imagined the tattoo on the man who destroyed her home.
Lucien hadn’t been the man.
He’d been hunting him, too.
The silence in the room made time, it hurt.
“I’m sorry,”
Lucien’s voice was low.
“I don’t talk about her. No one knows. So keep it that way.”
“I will.”
He nodded once. Then turned to go.
But paused in the doorway.
“Ariella?”
She looked up.
“I know I told you not to lie. But if you ever do, just make sure it’s not about something that could break me.”
Then he disappeared down the hall.
---
The next day, Ariella visited the archives.
Lucien’s story had shaken her—but not silenced her.
She needed proof.
She needed answers.
She went to the New York Times building. Asked for the digital archives. Dug into the incident five years ago.
Fire in Midtown—Unidentified Man Assaults Pregnant Woman Visiting CEO Lucien Blackwell
She clicked.
And there it was.
The photo of Lucien, kneeling in the street, cradling his sister’s body.
The same day her own life burned to the ground.
The same night her fiancé died.
It was the same man.
One man. Two lives destroyed.
Who the hell was he?
And why was he targeting both of them?
Her fingers trembled as she printed the article.
She no longer believed in coincidence.
---
Back at the penthouse, Ariella locked the article in her drawer.
Then opened her phone.
Zara’s monitor blinked to life.
Safe.
Still safe.
For now.
But someone out there wanted Lucien ruined.
And had hurt them both to do it.
That man wasn’t finished.
And Ariella knew it was only a matter of time before he came back.
---
- Writer
