Chapter 2: The Ghost in the Mirror
1336 Words
Dante didn’t leave.
Even when she told him to. Even when the knock rattled the air like a threat wrapped in wood. He stood there, drink in hand, arrogance clinging to him like cologne.
Isla’s heart didn’t race. Not anymore. Fear had stopped having a place in her chest.
Only fury lived there now.
She walked to the door, heels silent on the hardwood. Slowly. Calmly.
Her hand reached for the knob.
She didn’t open it.
Instead, she leaned close, lips brushing the cool metal.
“Who is it?” she asked, her voice a velvet threat.
Silence.
Then footsteps fading away.
She waited a second longer. Then turned back to him.
Dante looked confused. Like the king of the island was suddenly playing a game he didn’t understand.
“Expecting someone?” he asked.
She smiled. “A ghost.”
He chuckled, but it died in his throat when she stepped closer, fingers brushing the front of his suit.
“You’re tense,” she said.
“You’re intense,” he shot back.
She leaned in, lips inches from his. “I like my games slow. Dangerous.”
His breath hitched.
But before he could touch her, she stepped away.
“You should go now.”
His mouth parted, the rejection unfamiliar.
“You invited me in.”
“I did,” she said. “Now I’m uninviting you.”
He studied her for a second. Then smiled, like he liked the sting. Like he didn’t realize she was the fire.
“Alright, Reina. We’ll play your way.”
He left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And she let out a breath so slow it hurt her ribs.
---
She didn’t sleep.
Instead, she stood in front of the mirror, red silk robe slipping off her shoulder, exposing the jagged scar across her collarbone. The one she got when she clawed her way out of hell.
Her reflection didn’t blink.
It stared.
Empty. Cold.
“What did you become?” she whispered.
The girl she used to be would’ve run. Cried. Screamed.
This woman plotted.
She picked up her phone.
Reina: "He’s biting. He came to my room. He doesn’t recognize me yet. But he will."
The reply was instant.
Unknown Number: "You want to speed things up? Or let him drown slowly?"
She hesitated.
Then typed:
Reina: "Slow. I want him to fall in love with me first."
---
The next morning, the resort bloomed with life. Tourists and lovers and secrets spilled out like spilled champagne. And Isla? Isla was the spark in a room full of gasoline.
She wore black today.
Silk. Backless. The kind of dress that made men sin and women seethe.
At the bar, Dante found her.
Of course he did.
He leaned against the counter, eyes shamelessly dragging over her.
“You always look like you just walked out of a fantasy.”
She sipped her drink. Didn’t look at him.
“Careful, Mr. Creed. Fantasies have a price.”
He smirked. “Call me Dante.”
She finally turned to him, lashes low. “Dante.”
He smiled like he just won.
And she smiled because he didn’t know he’d already lost.
---
They talked. Laughed. Or rather—he laughed. She fed him charm like poison laced in sugar. He asked about her past. She gave him lies stitched in silk.
He said, “You seem familiar.”
She replied, “Maybe in another life.”
He said, “You feel like déjà vu.”
She said, “Or maybe a warning.”
He laughed again. “You’re dangerous.”
She leaned closer. “You have no idea.”
---
Later that day, she walked alone near the old cliffs. The place where she used to sneak to cry. Scream into the ocean. Bleed her silence into the wind.
Now, she stood there as the wind whipped through her hair, the waves crashing below like applause.
She was stronger now.
But strength came at a price.
She closed her eyes, and the memory sliced through her.
The room.
The hands.
The laugh.
Dante’s voice saying, “It’s just a game, sweetheart.”
She opened her eyes and screamed into the sky.
One loud, raw sound.
And then silence.
---
Back in her room, she found the envelope.
No return address.
Just her name, Reina, written in tight, angry script.
Inside, a photo.
A grainy still from that night.
Her. Crying. Bruised. Bleeding.
And him.
Dante.
Smirking.
Her hands trembled.
Her legs almost gave out.
She dropped the photo. Stared at it like it was a demon.
Then another knock.
Sharp. Urgent.
She didn’t move.
The knock came again.
“Reina?”
Dante’s voice.
She swallowed back the scream rising in her throat.
“Open up,” he said.
She grabbed the photo, shoved it under the bed.
Then opened the door, forcing calm.
“What?” she asked.
He looked flushed. Out of breath.
“I just… I had a weird feeling. About you. I—”
She narrowed her eyes. “You came to my room because of a feeling?”
He stared at her. “You’re hiding something.”
She smiled.
“Of course I am. Aren’t we all?”
He looked like he wanted to say more. But her phone buzzed on the table.
She walked over, checked it.
Unknown Number: “Photo delivered. You okay?”
She locked the screen.
Turned to Dante.
“I’m going for a swim,” she said. “You should leave.”
“I want to know you,” he said, stepping closer.
Her heart twisted in disgust and something far more dangerous.
“You will,” she whispered. “But not the way you think.”
---
That night, she dreamed of blood.
A memory. A prophecy.
She was standing over him. His mouth gagged. His eyes wild. Begging.
And her hand holding the knife.
But when she looked down, it wasn’t blood on her fingers.
It was her innocence. Her childhood. Her soul.
Slipping away.
---
She woke gasping. Eyes wild.
And there—on her pillow—
Another photo.
This one was worse.
Dante holding her face that night.
Like she was his.
She ripped it in half.
Her hands didn’t stop shaking.
She grabbed her phone.
Reina: “Who gave you these photos?”
Unknown Number: “Someone from the inside. You’re not the only one who wants him destroyed.”
She paused.
Reina: “Then help me. Give me everything. Names. Faces. Video.”
Unknown Number: “In time. Don’t get sloppy. Keep him close. Closer than ever.”
She stared at the screen.
Her reflection in the black screen looked like a stranger.
A killer.
A ghost.
---
She met Dante at the beach bar at sunset.
He handed her a drink. “To second chances.”
She clinked her glass against his.
“To karma.”
He raised a brow. “Dark toast.”
She smiled. “Dark girl.”
And then—
Gunshots.
Not near. But not far either.
Screams rang out. Chaos erupted. People ran.
Isla froze. Her body remembering.
Dante grabbed her arm. “Come on!”
She jerked away. “Don’t touch me!”
His eyes widened. “I’m trying to help—”
“You already did enough!” she snapped, then caught herself.
He stared.
“Reina… what do you mean?”
She backed away. “Nothing. Just—leave me alone.”
She turned, walked into the night, heart thundering.
She needed control.
But her past was bleeding into the present.
Faster than she could handle.
---
She returned to her room to find the door ajar.
Every instinct screamed.
She stepped inside slowly.
The lights were on.
The bed untouched.
But the mirror—
It was shattered.
And written across it, in red lipstick:
“Remember who you are, Isla Rayne.”
Her blood went cold.
No one was supposed to know.
No one was supposed to remember.
Except the dead.
---
- Writer
