Prologue
They said she vanished. But I remember the way her laughter clung to the walls long after she stopped breathing.
No one talks about her now. Not in my family, not among the men who served my father. Not even in the circles that profit off silence. Her name was erased from the ledgers, her face from the photographs, her existence from every place it should have lived. But not from me.
Never from me.
Lila.
The name still tastes like ash and honey. Sweet in memory, bitter in guilt.
She came into my world like a whisper, small, harmless, almost forgettable. But there was something about the way she looked at me, as if she could see through the polish and charm and straight into the rot underneath. I should have walked away that night. I should have never let her near me.
But curiosity is a dangerous thing, and I’ve always been curious.
The island is quiet now. Too quiet.
When the wind moves through the palms, I swear it carries her voice. Sometimes I hear her humming, soft, almost content, like the calm before the sea takes everything back. I tell myself it’s just the ocean, just the waves against the rocks. But the sound always comes from the same direction. The cliffs.
No one believes me, of course. They think I’ve built this place to escape my father’s empire, to wash the blood from my hands in blue water and sunlight. They don’t see the truth behind the glass walls and manicured gardens. They don’t hear the footsteps that echo through empty halls at night.
She’s still here.
Not alive, but not gone either.
Some nights, I dream of her face in the reflection of the pool, trembling across the surface. I wake before she speaks, drenched in sweat, with the scent of salt and smoke still in the air. It’s always the same dream. Always her.
I told myself Elysian Haven would be different. A place built from beauty instead of ruin. But the foundation is cracked, and I can feel it, like the island is holding its breath again, waiting for the truth to crawl out from beneath the marble floors.
Lila’s story didn’t end the night she disappeared.
It just changed hands.
And sometimes, when the tide pulls back far enough, I think I see her again , standing where the water meets the shore, hair tangled in the wind, watching me with that same knowing look.
The kind that reminds me I was never the hero of her story.
And she was never meant to survive mine.
Chapter 1
Aurelia
The darkness is a living thing, wrapping around me like a shroud. Hands, countless hands emerge from the shadows, their fingers icy and unyielding, clawing at my wrists, my ankles, my throat. They’re desperate to silence me, to smother my voice before it can escape. I twist and thrash, but the room is a haze of dim, flickering light, the walls jagged and indistinct, like a half-remembered ruin. The air hums with whispers, sharp and unintelligible, slicing through the fog of my panic. There are no faces, no bodies. Just those hands, relentless, pulling me deeper into the black. I try to scream, but nothing. The weight of the hands stealing my breath. The shadows pulse, alive. And I’m sinking, drowning in their grip.
I wake up choking on my own breath. My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Sweat slicks my skin, and my hands tremble so violently I have to grip the sheets just to feel something solid. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. Only that I’m not safe. Not yet.
When my mind finally catches up, I realize it’s morning. The soft light filtering in feels cruel, too gentle for how raw I feel inside. My chest aches. My throat burns. The echo of those hands, phantom, impossible, still lingers on my skin.
I sit there for a while, breathing like I’ve just surfaced from drowning. My heart won’t slow down. It’s as if part of me is still trapped there, in that nightmare. Still being dragged under. Sometimes I wonder if I ever really escaped.
The words hang in the air, too heavy, too honest. I move through the motions of morning. Washing my face, brushing my hair, dressing for work. I slip into a soft cream blouse tucked into high, waisted charcoal trousers. It’s effortlessly put together, professional enough for the office, yet comfortable enough to breathe in. But everything feels mechanical, distant. My reflection stares back at me with eyes that don’t look like mine anymore. Eyes that remember too much.
I sip my coffee, bitter and scalding, trying to burn the dream out of me from the inside. It doesn’t work.
By the time I step outside, the city is already buzzing. Life moving forward as if nothing happened. But inside me, the nightmare lingers, a quiet pulse beneath my ribs. It always does. I hail a cab and slide into the back, grateful for the brief reprieve. My pulse is still too fast, my skin clammy even under the gentle warmth of the morning air.
The driver fiddles with the radio, and a news segment crackles through the static. “Billionaire developer Keith Krogen is at it again,” the announcer says, her voice brimming with enthusiasm. “His latest project, the Elysian Haven Resort, is set to redefine luxury. Picture this: a man-made island in the Pacific, crafted fromthe ground up to be the most extravagant retreat the world has ever seen. Crystal waters, private villas, amenities so opulent they’re practically mythical. Krogen says it’s a paradise beyond imagination, and knowing his track record, we believe him.”
