Again after a while the series of night mare started and her body started trembling with cold sweat all over her body and again she woke up with the Scream. She got up shivering like on a winter night, even long after the scream had faded. He didn't dare move.
The echo still throbbed in her ears, her chest heaving like it had barely escaped some invisible chokehold. She sat there—knees to her chest, nails clawing at her arms, eyes wide and empty—waiting for the room to shift. Waiting for the air to remember how to be air again.
But nothing changed.
No footsteps rushed in. No comforting hands. No voice calling her name with worry in its tone.
Nothing.
Only silence.
And it reminded her too much of death.
The faint hum of the city lights beyond the glass mocked her. She turned her face away from the window, curling further into herself, whispering the truth over and over like it was the only anchor she had left.
"I died. I died. I fucking died."
The words were barely more than a breath. A mantra. A curse.
A knock came at the door, sharp and casual, like it didn't care that her world had just ended again.
Nyra stiffened. Didn't answer.
Then it opened anyway.
Damien stood there, backlit by hallway light, hair messy from sleep or a shower, his expression unreadable—but too calm. He looked down at her—small, shaking, buried under her own arms like she was trying to disappear—and he frowned.
"You screamed," he said flatly. "I heard you. And it's like second or third time."
Her lips parted, but no sound came. What could she even say? That she was still falling?
She nodded instead, barely.
Damien walked in slowly, shutting the door behind him. He didn't rush to her. Didn't try to touch her. Maybe that was the only mercy she had left.
"Nightmare?" he asked, softer now.
Nyra blinked at him, and something in her chest broke. "It wasn't a nightmare."
Damien paused, one hand resting on the edge of the dresser. "You said that before."
She sat up, eyes wild. "Because it's the truth."
His jaw tightened. "Nyra—"
"I died, Damien!" she snapped, voice cracking. "They pushed me off that cliff. I remember the wind in my ears. The rocks. The fucking silence. And then I woke up here. No wounds. No time passed. No one remembers. Not even you."
He stared at her, brow furrowing—not in belief, not in sympathy. In confusion. Discomfort.
"Nyra, I've had security pull records," he said carefully. "There's no footage of you coming in. No entry logs. Nothing. That's not… normal. I get it. But maybe it's trauma. Maybe you're remembering it wrong—"
"Don't," she hissed. "Don't call it trauma like it's a filter, you can slap over my face to make everything digestible."
"I'm not trying to erase what you feel," Damien said. "I'm trying to understand, believe in you. You aren't my friend, you are my enemy's bride and still I heard what you said isn't that enough?"
"No. You're trying to rationalize it," she spat. "You want me to fit into this world again so you can sleep at night? But I'm not the girl who walked into that wedding, Damien. She's dead. And I don't know what I am now."
His silence cut deeper than any argument could have.
A beat passed. Then another.
Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed, not close, but closer than before.
"I believe you think it happened," he said slowly. "I do. And I believe something broke that night. But dead people don't come back, Nyra."
She stared at him, the tears drying on her face like salt burned into stone.
"Then what am I?" she whispered.
He didn't have an answer. Just silence again.
Nyra laughed—cold and bitter and hollow. "That's what I thought."
She stood abruptly, feet bare against the cold marble floor, walking toward the window with trembling limbs. The city glowed below like a promise she could never touch. A lie dressed in diamonds.
"I'm alone in this," she muttered. "Everyone else moved on, forgot, or never remembered. And I'm stuck in this… in-between. Not alive, not dead. Just screaming into rooms that never echo back."
Damien ran a hand down his face, exhaling. "I didn't say I was giving up on you."
"You don't have to," she said, voice quieter now. "You already don't believe me. Will why would you in the first place I am not your known. I am sorry I was out of line."
But She turned her head toward him, eyes dark and glassy.
"Do you know what it feels like to remember your own death? To wake up with your body intact but your soul screaming? To hear the laughter of the people who killed you and know they're still walking free—untouched—while you have to pretend to be sane for everyone else?"
"I don't," he admitted.
"Exactly."
She didn't say it with malice. Just exhaustion.
A long silence stretched between them, brittle and fragile.
Then Damien stood. "I'll have food sent up. You need something in your system."
"I need truth," she murmured, but he was already walking to the door.
Before leaving, he paused.
"I'm not your enemy, Nyra. Whatever's happening to you… we'll figure it out."
But his voice lacked conviction.
And when the door closed behind him, it sounded like a wall slamming shut.
She turned back to the window, arms crossed over her chest again, heart hammering like a war drum in a war no one else knew she was fighting. Her reflection looked pale, ragged, like someone stitched together by lightning and grief.
Then the door opened again.
It wasn't Damien this time.
A young man with light brown skin, shaggy dark curls, and round glasses peeked in nervously, carrying a tray.
"I—I'm the new assistant. Damien told me to bring this. You okay?"
Nyra blinked at him, disoriented. "Who are you?"
"Zayden. Zay for short." He glanced around awkwardly. "He said you might not want to eat, but he also said you have to. Something about blood sugar and you looking like you've seen a ghost."
She let out a bitter laugh. "I am the ghost."
Zayden didn't reply right away. He just set the tray down carefully on the side table. Then, hesitantly, he looked back at her.
"I don't mean to overstep, but…" he paused. "You were screaming earlier. Like… really loud. I've heard nightmares before, but that wasn't just bad dreams."
She met his eyes. "It wasn't a dream."
Zayden stared at her, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he wanted to believe her but didn't know how.
"Okay," he said finally. "Then maybe it's a memory."
She narrowed her eyes. "You believe me?"
He shrugged. "I don't know what to believe. But I've seen enough weird shit in this world to know that sometimes the craziest people are just the ones telling the truth too early."
That made her pause.
And for the first time in hours, Nyra didn't feel entirely alone.
Not believed. Not understood.
But… maybe heard.
Zayden stayed silent after that. He didn't ask questions. Didn't say it was going to be okay. Just stood there, arms crossed but gaze steady, as if he was holding space for her when no one else did. And maybe that's why—for the first time in what felt like a lifetime—Nyra's shoulders dropped, just a little. Not enough to let the weight go, but enough to feel like she could breathe for a second without choking on her own thoughts.
She blinked up at him, wiping the tears with the back of her sleeve. "Zayden," her voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "Can you… can you take that away?" She gestured faintly toward the untouched food tray, its presence beginning to suffocate her.
He followed her gaze. The silver lid still sat untouched, glinting beneath the dim city lights spilling through the window. " Sir Damien told me not to," Zayden replied carefully. "He said you needed to eat."
"I can't," Nyra muttered, shaking her head. "Please. Just… I need it gone."
Zayden hesitated. A flicker of discomfort crossed his face—not fear exactly, but something close. Damien's temper wasn't a secret. The man guarded control like it was his birthright, and any deviation from his instructions rarely ended well for those beneath him.
But then he looked at Nyra again—really looked—and something in his jaw shifted. "Alright," he said finally. "If he asks, I'll deal with it."
Nyra gave him a weak nod, grateful but too hollow to say thank you aloud. Zayden walked over, picked up the tray, and exited without another word, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him as if giving her the option of not being locked inside.
She sat still for a few moments, the silence pressing back in like an old habit. Her head tilted toward the massive windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, glass panes slicked with the residue of earlier rain. The city beyond was still buzzing—cars slicing through the night, sirens whispering in the distance, and people chasing lives that no longer belonged to her.
A bath. Maybe water would help.
She forced herself off the bed, limbs reluctant like they'd aged decades overnight. She moved slowly through the suite, her reflection ghosting alongside her in every glass surface. The bathroom was carved from cool marble and chrome, luxurious and sterile, like it belonged in a magazine, not real life.
She turned the knobs and watched the tub fill. Steam curled into the air. But as she stripped off the damp robe and stepped in, her breath hitched.
The warmth felt like fingers. The water too close. Too much.
Her eyes clamped shut. She waited for the cliff. For Nolan's smirk. For the feeling of air ripping past her ears as her body plummeted toward the rocks. But it didn't come—at least not immediately.
She sat submerged, knees to her chest, arms hugging herself.
Every drop against her skin reminded her: she wasn't safe. Not in this body. Not in this world. Not even in water that was supposed to soothe.
She stayed in until the heat faded. Until the water turned tepid and her fingertips wrinkled like old paper. Then she pulled herself out, dried off in silence, and threw on one of Damien's oversized black shirts from the closet. It swallowed her frame but felt less suffocating than anything silk or soft. She didn't want to feel like a bride. Not now. Not ever again.
But sleep? She couldn't risk it.
She stood in the middle of the room for a long time, unmoving, before her eyes found the desk tucked beside the window. A thick velvet chair. A glass lamp with brass trim. And a single leather-bound notepad with a pen placed neatly beside it.
It called to her like a whisper.
Words.
Maybe if she wrote it down… maybe if she tried…
She crossed the floor barefoot, slowly, and sat in the chair. The city glared through the glass in front of her, alive and blinking. She picked up the pen and stared at the page.
The silence was deeper here. Not empty—just waiting.
And as her fingers tightened around the pen, she finally let the first thought surface.
She wasn't sure who she was writing to. Or if she was writing to anyone at all.
But the need was real. Desperate.
To write.
To remember.
To hold onto herself before the world erased her again.