Sitting at my dressing table, I pin my hair into a messy updo, but fear begins to suffocate me, the realization hitting hard.
He’s not going to stop until I’m dead. And I won’t let him have that. He’s not taking that from me too.
I need to get out of here.
Tonight.
He’s drunk and more vicious than ever.
My thoughts start spiralling out of control, each one darker than the last, panic tightening its grip around my throat.
But I force myself to focus on something else—anything.
I reach for my foundation and carefully cover the bruise spreading across my cheek, blending until the purple stain is nothing more than a shadow beneath my skin.
Then, suddenly, the room seems to darken around me. Not with shadow, but with a strange, icy blue haze that creeps into every corner.
My hand stills, and a chill prickles across my skin. As my breathing quickens, cold air bursts from my mouth with each exhale. Within seconds, the temperature plummets, sending a violent shiver through me.
My eyes dart around the spinning room, searching for an explanation, for something that makes sense.
Then I see it—the mirror in front of me gradually fogs over, swallowing my reflection. A line appears in the condensation, then another, as though an invisible finger is dragging itself across the glass.
Through broad, disbelieving eyes, and my heart thundering in my ears, I read the message take shape. Letter by letter, carving themselves through the mist.
G
E
T
O
U
T
!
I read them once. Twice. Again and again.
Getting ready to bolt, I push off the stool—but then, just like that, the room snaps back into light, and warmth rushes over my skin. My reflection stares back at me, dishevelled but normal, foundation brush still clutched in my hand.
I blink rapidly and shake my head once, trying to get myself together.
What. The. Fuck?
Maybe it’s my rotting psyche... It has to be.
Knowing I don't have time to overthink it, I push it back to the darkest corners of my mind. In a rush, I swivel and get up, darting to the walk in wardrobe.
Walking through the dimly lit foyer, my black heels click against the marble floor while the train of my fitted black velvet dress whispers behind me.
I tug anxiously at my long sleeves, pulling them further down my arms. Silk fingerless gloves conceal my scarred hands as low murmurs drift from the dining room ahead.
My pulse spikes when I reach the slightly open double doors.
Peeking through the gap, the smell of food hits me first, turning my stomach. Then I spot Law, sitting at the head of the table.
