Chapter 2
1386 Words
The Watchers
The envelope was still in her hands.
She hadn’t moved for five minutes, maybe more. The lamp by her bedside cast a soft amber glow, but the photo inside glared back like an accusation. It wasn’t posed. It wasn’t polished. It was real. Her hair was longer then, tangled by the Italian wind. Her mouth was open in a laugh so careless, it almost hurt to look at. Paint smeared her arms, her jeans. She wasn’t wearing shoes. Her eyes were different too—bright, reckless, and alive.
She almost didn’t recognize herself.
The note tucked behind the photo was short.
Do you remember who you were before he broke you?
Written in red ink, the letters slanted forward like a blade mid-swing. She turned it over—blank. No name, and no explanation.
But someone knew.
Someone had been close enough to see her fall apart.
She slid the photo and the note back into the envelope and tucked it deep under her mattress like a child hiding broken glass. Her chest was tight, breath shallow, but her face stayed calm.
The phone buzzed.
A text. Unknown number.
Tomorrow, 11:00 a.m. West Seventy-Second, no driver, no phone, come alone. Or don’t come at all.
The screen dimmed. Her reflection stared back, hollow-eyed and still.
She didn’t sleep that night.
She lay stiff under the sheets, listening to the tick of the old clock, to the creaks in the walls, to the quiet hum of power lines outside. Sleep wouldn’t come, not when everything inside her felt like it was waking up for the first time in years. She was so restless that every second seemed like hours. It was as though she’s waiting for eternity for dawn.
Finally, morning broke over the skyline in pale, shivering light.
Liana dressed quietly. Jeans, wore boots, a dark wool coat. She left her diamonds on the dresser, the credit cards in the drawer. She tied her hair low at the nape of her neck, wiped the gloss from her lips. Not Liana Vale this time, just Liana.
She slipped out the side exit, past the yawning guards, past the black car waiting to take her nowhere she wanted to go.
The city was strange, and not so much activities this early. Steam rose from the grates. Taxi drivers cursed half-heartedly at red lights. Pigeons crowded around the sidewalks like little gray kings.
She walked to West Seventy-Second with her hands in her pockets, heart steady but sharp. Every footstep seemed too loud, too soft. Every passing face a little too curious.
When she reached the address, she hesitated.
A café. Closed. Curtains drawn. No sign on the door.
She didn’t move. So many thoughts raced through her simultaneously.
Then—a click. The door cracked open just an inch.
A man stood there, narrow-shouldered in a black jacket, face unreadable.
“You came,” he said. Not a question, just a fact.
He held the door wider. She stepped inside.
The air smelled of old paper and something earthy—rosemary or sage. A record spun low in the corner, playing scratchy jazz. The furniture didn’t match. The light bulbs buzzed faintly.
At the back table, a woman waited.
Late twenties, sharp angles. A scar pulled at the skin just below her right eye. Her boots were scuffed, jacket heavy with rain.
“You’re late,” the woman said.
“No one gave me their name,” Liana answered.
The woman’s mouth lifted at one corner. Not a smile. “Smart girl.”
The man poured tea into mismatched cups but didn’t sit down.
Liana stayed standing. She wasn’t stupid enough to sit with her back to the door.
“We’re not here to hurt you,” the woman said.
“Strange way of showing it,” Liana replied.
The woman didn’t argue. She just pushed a photograph across the table with two fingers.
Liana looked.
Edward Vale.
Captured mid-stride outside a warehouse she didn’t recognize. His smile was wrong—too thin, too sharp. Three other men flanked him. One wore a ring engraved with the King family crest.
Gabriel’s bloodline.
Liana’s stomach twisted.
“We’ve been watching him for years,” the man said. “Your father, and the Kings.”
“Congratulations,” she said coldly. “What do you want from me?”
The woman leaned back, arms loose across the chair. “To remember who you are. Before they buried you.”
“That girl’s dead,” Liana said.
“She’s breathing,” the woman said. “Barely, but breathing.”
The room seemed to close in around her, the walls pushing closer.
Liana’s hand curled into a fist. She wanted to laugh, to scream, to run. She was confused, not knowing what to do. Instead, she stood very still.
“Why now?” she asked.
The woman’s gaze sharpened. “Because Gabriel King isn’t who you think he is, and neither are you.”
Silence cracked between them.
“We don’t need you to fight,” the man said. “Not yet. Just… stay awake.”
Liana stared at them for a long moment. Then turned and left.
The door swung shut behind her.
Outside, the fog had thickened. The city moved around her, oblivious.
She didn’t hail a cab. She walked.
By the time she reached her studio, her lungs ached from the cold.
The space smelled like dust and turpentine. No one had been here in years. Not really, not her.
A blank canvas leaned against the far wall, half-forgotten.
She sat on the floor across from it, knees pulled to her chest, staring.
It stared back.
The first brush she picked up was too small, so she dropped it. The second fit her fingers better. She found herself dipping it into red paint without thinking.
Always red first.
But she didn’t move the brush yet.
The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It was humming, alive.
Her phone rang.
Gabriel.
She let it ring once, twice.
Then picked up.
“Yes?” Her voice was sharper than she meant it to be.
“I’m outside,” he said.
She stood, moved to the window.
There he was. Leaning against his car, hands in his pockets, watching her building like he owned the air around it.
Of course he was.
She opened the door before he could buzz.
He didn’t wait for her to speak. “Your father wants us both at dinner tomorrow, at the club.”
She nodded once.
“You okay?” he asked.
She blinked at him. “Since when do you ask?”
Gabriel shrugged. “Since you looked like you wanted to disappear last night.”
She said nothing.
He studied her like she was a puzzle missing half its pieces.
“Do you want this?” he asked finally.
She stared at him. “What part?”
“This marriage. This deal.”
Her laugh was soft and bitter. “Want’s got nothing to do with it.”
Gabriel nodded once. Something in his jaw tightened. “Let me know if you ever decide to start lying to me,” he said. “I’d like a little warning.”
He left her standing there, the wind stirring her coat around her ankles.
Inside, she locked the door.
Turned back to the studio.
The canvas was still blank.
But the red paint in her hand was starting to drip.
Before she could lift the brush, something pulled at her instincts—sharp and cold.
She moved to the window.
Across the street, between two cracked lampposts, a man stood. Shadowed. Watching.
Too still to be just another pedestrian.
She switched off the light without thinking.
When her eyes adjusted, he was gone.
She didn’t move for a long moment.
Then she saw it.
Another envelope.
Not left on her pillow this time.
Or the canvas.
On the blanket she hadn’t touched.
She crossed the room slowly, heart hammering in her ribs.
Inside the envelope: a USB drive.
And a note, typed this time:
You’re not the only one pretending.
The room seemed to tilt.
The brush dropped from her fingers.
Red splattered across the floor.
And for the first time in a very long time—
Liana smiled.
But it didn’t reach her eyes.
- Writer
