I stare at the MP3 player, horror clawing at my throat. This isn't a studio recording. This is a surveillance tape.
I go to skip the track, my thumb hovering over the button, but I can't do it. A morbid, sickening curiosity paralyzes me. The track changes automatically.
Track 02.Ambient noise. The sound of rain hitting a windowpane. Then, the sound of weeping. Soft, broken sobs. The sound of someone trying to be quiet, trying to stifle their pain into a pillow. I recognize the rhythm of the breathing. It’s me. It’s the night my father told me I wasn't good enough for Julliard. The night I locked myself in my bedroom and cried until I threw up.
How?How does he have this? Alaric Graves isn't just a doctor who accepted a payout to disappear a troublesome heiress. He didn't just meet me last night.
He has been listening. For how long? Weeks? Months? Years?
I rip the earbuds out of my ears and throw the device across the room. It lands on the bed, bouncing harmlessly on the duvet. The tiny tinny sound of the recording continues to spill from the earbuds, faint but audible in the deadly silence of the room.
He’s a stalker. He’s a predator who has been circling my life, waiting for the fence to break so he could get in. And whenmy parents finally opened the gate, he was right there. "I hate wasting talent," he had said.
He didn't save me because he's a doctor. He saved me because he’s a collector. And I am the limited edition he’s been hunting.
I scramble to my feet, backing away from the bed as if the MP3 player is a venomous snake. I need to get out. I turn to the door, grabbing the handle. I unlock the deadbolt and yank it. It doesn't budge. I try again. Locked.
"No," I whimper. "No, I just unlocked it."
I check the mechanism. The deadbolt is retracted. The door should open. Unless... Unless it has a secondary magnetic lock controlled from the outside.Access Denied.
"Alaric!" I scream, pounding my fist on the heavy wood. "Let me out! I know what you are!"
Silence. Only the faint sound of my own crying coming from the headphones on the bed answers me.
I slide down the door again, defeated. I am trapped in a room with a ghost. A ghost of myself, recorded and curated by a monster.
Hours pass. The light in the room shifts from the grey of morning to the amber of late afternoon, and finally to the deep, bruised purple of twilight. I don't move from the floor. I sit with my back against the door, my knees drawn up, watching the shadows lengthen. I didn't eat lunch. No one came. My stomach cramps, twisting around its own emptiness, but the nausea of the revelation is stronger than the hunger.
I picked up the MP3 player again an hour ago. I couldn't help it. I listened to the whole playlist.
There are fifty tracks. Piano practice. Phone conversations with my mother where she criticizes my weight. Arguments with my instructors. Moments of silence where I am just breathing, reading a book.
And in between the tracks of my life, there are voice notes. His voice. Deep. Gravelly. Recorded in a quiet space, maybe a car, maybe this very room.
Track 12."She favors the left hand. The emotional resonance is there, but the discipline is fracturing. She is breaking. Beautifully."
Track 24."They hurt her again today. The father. He looks at her like an investment that’s depreciating. He doesn't see the fire. I see it. I want to burn in it."
Track 49."Soon. The cracks are wide enough now. Soon I will step in."
I listen to his voice over and over again. It is terrifying. It is the voice of a man completely obsessed. But... and this is the thought that makes me want to scream... It is also the only voice that ever sounded like itcared. My parents heard my mistakes. My instructors heard my potential. Alaric... Alaric heardme. He heard my pain. He heard my fire. He watched me break, yes. But he watched. He paid attention.
"You're sick," I whisper to the device, clutching it tight. "You're absolutely sick."
Click.
The magnetic lock disengages with a heavy thud. I scramble to my feet, putting distance between me and the door. The handle turns. Alaric enters.
He brings the smell of the outside world with him—cold air, ozone, and something metallic, like blood, though he looks pristine. He is wearing the same cashmere sweater, but he has rolled the sleeves up, revealing those muscular forearms. He carries a tray. Dinner.
He stops when he sees me standing by the window, the MP3 player in my hand. His eyes flick to the device, then up to my face. He knows. Of course he knows. He intended for me to find out.
"You listened," he says. It’s not a question. He kicks the door shut and walks to the small table, setting the tray down. Steak. Roasted vegetables. Red wine.
"How long?" I ask. My voice is steady, surprising me. The fear has burned itself out, leaving only a cold, hard anger.
Alaric pours a glass of wine. He takes a sip before turning to face me. "Eight months," he answers. "Since the Winter Gala. You played Debussy. You wore a green dress that didn't fit you because you had stopped eating. You looked like a tragedy waiting to happen."
