The pen hovered over the page like it, too, was afraid of the truth.
Nyra stared down at the paper, the blankness of it almost cruel. Too clean. Too empty. Like it didn't know she had died once already. Like it was daring her to start.
Her fingers trembled.
She pressed the tip of the pen to the page.
"I don't know if I'm writing this to myself or to someone who'll never read it."
The words spilled out shakily at first, jagged. Like her breath. But once they started, they didn't stop.
"They think I'm broken. Maybe I am. But not in the way they believe. They think I'm in shock, traumatized, confused. But I remember everything. Every single detail."
She paused.
Her eyes flicked toward the skyline. The buildings across the glass stretched toward the clouds like they were trying to outrun the past, their windows blinking in and out of darkness. Somewhere out there, Nolan was probably sleeping soundly. Or laughing. Or lying.
Her stomach twisted.
Then again, the pen lingered, then continued with force.
"I died. I didn't almost die. I didn't imagine it. I died, and I came back. And none of them remember. Nolan acts like nothing happened. My mother looks at me like I'm fragile, not like someone who's been murdered. And Damien…"
Her hand hesitated again at his name.
"…he's the only one who doesn't treat me like glass. But he doesn't believe me either. I see it in his eyes. He thinks I'm delusional. Kind, maybe. Protective. But still doesn't believe."
She swallowed, throat dry, eyes burning.
"What do you do when the world moves on without you? When your death was erased like it never mattered? When you have no proof but the scream that won't stop echoing inside your head?"
She stopped, exhaled shakily, and rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. The pen fell to the desk with a quiet clink.
She couldn't write more. Not right now.
So, she sat there, curled in Damien's chair by the tall window, Soon she realized that the city is glinting under a hazy wash of early morning light. Dawn had crept in unnoticed, smearing gold and pale violet across the sky like a bruise fading too slow. The light touched the glass in quiet strokes, but none of it reached her bones.
Her fingers tightened around the pen, unmoving.
Something wasn't right.
She was the runaway bride of one of the wealthiest, most well-connected men in the country. Nolan Hayes. A man who didn't just own companies—he owned headlines, people, power. If she'd truly run from the altar, disappeared without a trace, the world should be on fire by now. Helicopters. News alerts. Search dogs. Journalists clawing for scraps. Reporters camped outside every hotel. Social media in shambles.
But there was… nothing.
Not even a ripple.
No knocks. No calls. No alerts. No headlines screaming Missing: Heiress Disappears Hours Before Hayes Wedding. No photos. No CCTV analysis. No fucking noise at all.
The stillness wasn't safety—it was a noose tightening around her neck.
"What is this…" she whispered to herself, voice hoarse, eyes flicking across the skyline like she could find answers in the reflection of the glass. "What kind of silence is this?"
It was wrong.
Wrong in the way, a calm ocean hides a riptide beneath it. Wrong like a scream muffled just before it escapes.
Her heartbeat began to speed up.
Why hadn't Nolan sent his men to drag her back yet?
Why hadn't Ava posted some crocodile-teared statement? "My dearest sister is missing, please, help us find her." Something fake and loud and carefully curated for clicks.
Nothing.
The world was too quiet. Like it had been rewound. Like the cliff—the fall, the betrayal—had somehow been erased not just from memory, but from reality itself.
"Is this the calm before the storm… or the silence after burial?" she muttered, voice cracking.
Her throat clenched. Her eyes burned. The pen finally scratched the paper again, but she didn't write words—just drew dark, aimless lines over and over again in the corner of the page, the ink bleeding and tearing into the paper like it was skin.
She couldn't trust it.
This wasn't peace.
This was a set-up. A ghost-story reality where she was the only one who remembered the truth. A world pretending nothing happened. A world where the dead didn't get to scream.
She clenched the pen so hard her knuckles went pale.
A soft knock interrupted the spiral.
Nyra's breath hitched.
The knock came again—gentle, cautious. Not Damien. He wouldn't knock. He'd just walk in like the suite belonged to him. Because it did.
Another knock. And then a voice followed, female, uncertain.
"Miss…? I'm sorry to disturb. Damien sent us up. I'm Rayna. I brought your clothes."
Nyra blinked, surprised. She stood slowly and crossed the room with caution, barefoot against the cool wood.
She opened the door just enough to see a woman in her late twenties standing there, holding a garment bag in one hand and a folded bundle in the other. She had kind brown eyes and wore an all-black uniform, crisp but not intimidating. Beside her stood a man—tall, lean, with neatly kept hair and an unreadable face.
"I'm Arlen," he introduced himself, voice deeper, firmer than Rayna's. "We're part of Damien's internal staff. Security, transport, anything he needs."
Rayna gave him a quick glance and stepped forward. "He thought you might want a change of clothes. We didn't mean to intrude."
Nyra nodded slowly, unsure. "Thank you," she whispered, stepping back.
They entered without pushing.
Rayna moved toward the wardrobe, hanging the garment bag carefully and laying down soft fabric—a pair of warm lounge pants, a cotton shirt, and slippers. Simple, neutral colors. Not lace. Not silk.
"Something comfortable," Rayna said quietly, almost like she knew what Nyra couldn't say out loud.
Arlen stood near the wall, eyes scanning the room. Not rudely. Just… aware. Like he knew danger could grow from silence.
Nyra glanced at the writing desk. Her journal lay open. The ink still wet.
She turned slightly, shielding it with her body.
Rayna noticed. "We didn't read anything," she said quickly. "We wouldn't."
Nyra gave a tight nod, still hugging herself.
"You didn't eat," Arlen said, more of a statement than a question.
She turned toward him. "No."
He studied her expression for a moment and then softened, just barely. "You should try to rest. Damien said he'll check on you in the morning."
Rayna gave a small smile. "We're going for some follow up as daily schedule, if you need anything. I'm just a few rooms down. You just have to press the panel by the door."
Nyra didn't answer. But the corner of her mouth moved—just slightly. Enough.
"I hope you will eat this now not like before not having anything," Rayna said gently, backing toward the door.
"Please have it," Arlen echoed, giving Nyra one last look—more thoughtful than detached—before he followed.
The door clicked shut behind them.
And she was alone again.
But something felt different. Maybe not safer. Maybe not better.
But not entirely invisible.
She turned back to the desk. Her legs folded beneath her on the chair as she stared at the page once more. The words she had written sat there, like bones freshly dug from the earth.
She picked up the pen again.
And this time, she didn't stop writing.