Chapter Three
1099 Words
Alexander-
When her door opened, at first I thought it was her.
My Elena.
The same eyes. The same softness in her mouth. For one fleeting second, my lungs forgot how to work, and every scar inside me ripped open like it was yesterday, not years ago. A wave of gut-wrenching grief hit me so hard I had to fight to stay on my feet. The memories were a physical weight, crushing me under the pain of a life I’d lost forever.
But then I blinked.
Not Elena.
Her.
This woman—Freya, she said her name was—stood in the doorway with a mix of fear and defiance flashing in her gaze. The resemblance was uncanny, cruel even, but she wasn’t Elena. She was… different. Her shoulders squared as if she could handle a storm, but her voice carried cracks of something she tried desperately to mask. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and a smudge of paint was visible on her cheek. She smelled of something sweet and familiar, a scent that settled over my senses and made me want to forget the world outside.
I hated that I noticed.
I hated that the sight of her made something restless stir in my chest.
“Are you going to keep staring at me, or are you actually hurt?” she asked, crossing her arms like she wasn’t already trembling from the danger that trailed me.
I looked down at my shirt, the blood still damp from the cut on my side. Superficial. Nothing I couldn’t handle. But the warmth in her voice when she’d pulled me in earlier—it made me pause. It was a lifeline I hadn’t known I needed, a moment of unexpected kindness in a life defined by violence.
“I’ll live,” I muttered, though my jaw tightened. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Then go.” She threw the words out carelessly, but the way her eyes flicked over my wound told me she didn’t mean it. She wasn’t heartless. Just guarded. She was a woman who had learned to put up walls, just like me.
Her apartment smelled faintly of paint and vanilla candles. The kind of ordinary warmth I didn’t deserve.
And still, I didn’t move.
Because as much as I told myself I should leave, the truth was, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to.
---
I sat down anyway, ignoring the sharp look she shot me, and pressed a hand against my side. I’d been in worse situations. Hell, Marcus made sure of that. Tonight was just another ambush, another warning shot in a war that had been brewing since the night Elena died.
Except fate decided to play its sick joke and shove her look-alike into my path.
“Do you… need me to call someone?” she asked carefully, hovering by the kitchen counter.
“No.” The word came out clipped, harsher than intended.
She raised a brow, not intimidated in the slightest. “Okay, then. No doctors. No help. Just you bleeding on my floor.”
Despite myself, my lips twitched. Bold. Feisty. Not like Elena.
“You shouldn’t talk to men you barely know like that,” I told her, mostly to remind myself not to soften.
“And you shouldn’t barge into a stranger’s room bleeding like you’re auditioning for a mafia drama,” she shot back.
This woman had no idea just how close to the truth that was.
I leaned back against the chair, watching her, almost studying her. The more I looked, the more I saw it. Elena’s ghost, hovering around the curve of her cheek, the arch of her brows. It was like Marcus had planned this, like he’d conjured her out of thin air just to torment me.
But Elena was gone. And Freya—whatever her story was—stood here alive.
That was the dangerous part.
---
“I need to leave,” I said at last, pushing up from the chair. Every instinct told me not to linger, not to drag her deeper into the fire I carried with me.
She frowned. “You’re in no condition to be wandering around.”
“Trust me,” I said lowly, “I’ve walked with worse.”
I meant it. She didn’t need to know that the bruises and scars Marcus left behind had already shaped me into something harder, colder.
She hesitated, then sighed. “Fine. Do whatever you want. I’m not your babysitter.”
Her words should’ve cut clean. Instead, they stung with something I couldn’t name.
I walked toward the door, my hand reaching for the knob—when a knock sounded. Sharp. Unexpected.
Her eyes widened instantly, fear breaking through her mask.
I held up a hand, silencing her, and moved to the side. I wasn’t about to let her open the door without knowing who was on the other side.
“Who is it?” she called, her voice tighter than before.
“Flower delivery,” came a man’s muffled reply.
Her brows furrowed, confusion written all over her. She glanced at me, but I already knew. My teeth clenched as the realization slammed into me.
Not just flowers. Not random.
I yanked the door open before she could stop me. Sure enough, a delivery boy stood there, holding a bouquet of lilies. Elena’s favorite. My blood went cold, then hot, fury igniting in my veins.
The boy handed the flowers over, oblivious to the storm brewing behind my eyes. “For Freya,” he said simply before turning to leave.
Freya looked at me like I had the answers. Like I could explain why a stranger would send her flowers that carried ghosts of a dead woman.
But I knew exactly who was behind this.
Marcus.
Of course it was Marcus.
Always one step ahead, always twisting the knife. He knew I’d see these. He wanted me to. He wanted to remind me that no matter where I went, no matter who I found, Elena’s shadow would choke me.
I gritted my teeth, barely holding back the urge to smash the vase into the wall.
Freya’s voice was small, uncertain. “Why… do I feel like you know something about this?”
I didn’t answer right away. Because if I told her the truth, I’d condemn her to my world of obsession, betrayal, and blood.
And yet, as I looked at her standing there, clutching those lilies with wide, frightened eyes, I realized something terrifying.
I already had.
- Writer
