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Landon's penthouse smells like rosemary and brown butter.

I'm curled up on his obscenely expensive sectional—the kind of furniture that probably costs more than most people's cars—watching him move around the open-concept kitchen with practiced ease. He's cooking, which shouldn't surprise me anymore but still does. The Golden Prince of Ardencrest, heir to a political dynasty, wearing a casual black sweater and chopping vegetables with the precision of someone who actually knows what they're doing.

"You don't have to cook for me," I say, not for the first time. "We could have just ordered something."

"And deprive myself of the pleasure of feeding you?" He glances over his shoulder with that devastating smile. "Absolutely not. Besides, you've lost weight. I can see it in your face."

He's right. I have. The stress of the past week—the nightmares, the suspicions, the growing certainty that something is fundamentally wrong—has killed my appetite. I've been surviving on coffee and granola bars, forgetting meals, too anxious to eat.

"I've just been busy with midterms."

"Mm." He turns back to the stove, and I watch the muscles in his shoulders move beneath the sweater as he stirs something that smells incredible. "Well, tonight you're going to eat an actual meal. And then you're going to tell me what's really bothering you."

My stomach clenches. "Nothing's bothering me."

"Hazel." He doesn't turn around, but there's something in his voice that makes me sit up straighter. "You've barely looked at me all week. You've turned down every invitation I've extended. And right now, you're sitting on the far end of the couch like you're trying to maximize the distance between us."

He's right again. I am. I've unconsciously pressed myself against the armrest, as far from him as the furniture allows.

"I'm just tired," I lie.

"You're terrified." He does turn now, and the intensity in his teal eyes steals my breath. "Of me. And I can't figure out why."

The documentation sitting on my laptop at home flashes through my mind. Three pages of coincidences and suspicions. The scratches on my lock. The nightmare that might not have been a nightmare. The systematic isolation of everyone in my life except him.

Tell him. Ask him directly. Give him a chance to explain.

But the words stick in my throat, because what if I'm wrong? What if my trauma brain has constructed an elaborate conspiracy out of random coincidences? What if I destroy the one good thing in my life by accusing him of something unspeakable?

"I'm not scared of you," I whisper. "I could never be scared of you."

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

He studies me for a long moment, then turns back to the stove. "Liar."

The word hangs in the air like smoke.

We eat in tense silence—some kind of risotto that's probably restaurant-quality but tastes like cardboard in my mouth. Landon watches me push food around my plate, his jaw getting tighter with each passing minute.

"You're not eating."

"I'm not hungry."

"You're never hungry anymore." He sets his fork down with careful precision. "When's the last time you had a full meal?"

I can't remember. Yesterday? The day before? Time has started blurring together in uncomfortable ways.

"Hazel." He reaches across the table and takes my hand, his thumb finding my pulse point with unerring accuracy. "You're killing yourself with stress. Let me help. Please."

And for just a moment—just a brief, shining moment—I let myself believe the illusion.

That this is real. That he's really just my concerned best friend who wants to take care of me. That the nightmares and suspicions are all in my head, manifestations of trauma and anxiety that have nothing to do with reality.

That I'm safe here.

I squeeze his hand back and force myself to take a real bite of risotto. It's delicious, of course. Everything Landon does is perfect.

That's the problem.

An hour later, his phone buzzes with an incoming call. He glances at the screen and his expression shifts to something apologetic.

"I have to take this. Elite tier meeting—Evander's calling an emergency session about some policy issue." He's already standing, reaching for his jacket. "I should be back in an hour, two at most. Will you wait for me?"

The question feels weighted. Like he's asking something deeper than whether I'll stay in his penthouse for a couple hours.

"Sure," I hear myself say.

His smile is relieved, genuine. "Good. Make yourself comfortable. Watch something, raid the kitchen, whatever you want. Just—" He pauses at the door, looking back at me with an expression I can't quite read. "Don't leave without saying goodbye. Okay?"

"Okay."

Then he's gone, and I'm alone in this massive, immaculate space that suddenly feels freezing and suffocating without him.

I should leave. Should gather my things and go back to my dorm and put distance between us until I can think clearly.

Instead, I stand and start moving through the penthouse.

I've been here before—plenty of times for study sessions and movie nights and casual hangouts. But I've always been with Landon, always under his watchful eye, always guided to specific spaces while other areas remained mysteriously off-limits.

Now I'm alone.

And my anxiety is humming at an all-time high, vibrating in my bones like a plucked string.

The living room is pristine—furniture arranged with geometric precision, not a cushion out of place. The kitchen is spotless, no evidence of the meal we just ate except for dishes drying in the rack. Everything is perfect. Controlled. Exactly what you'd expect from someone like Landon Ashford.

Too perfect.

I move down the hallway toward what I assume are the private quarters—bedroom, bathroom, office. Areas I've never been invited to enter.

My hand hovers over the first doorknob, and some part of my brain screams that this is a violation. That I'm crossing a boundary. That I'm betraying his trust by snooping through his private space.

But another part—the part that's been cataloging coincidences and documenting suspicions—needs to know.

Needs proof that I'm either losing my mind or justified in my fear.

I turn the handle.

The bedroom is exactly what I expect—king-sized bed with expensive linens, minimal decoration, everything in shades of gray and white. There's a photograph on the nightstand of Landon with his parents at some formal event, all three of them looking like they stepped out of a political campaign ad.

Nothing suspicious. Nothing wrong.

I check the bathroom next. Marble and chrome, high-end toiletries, a medicine cabinet that contains exactly what you'd expect—painkillers, allergy medication, contact lens solution.

Still nothing.

I'm starting to feel ridiculous, like a paranoid girlfriend searching her boyfriend's apartment for evidence of cheating. This is invasive and wrong and—

And there's an office at the end of the hall.

The door is closed but unlocked. I push it open and step into a space that's clearly Landon's workspace—heavy oak desk, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, expensive leather chair. A laptop sits closed on the desk, and there are neat stacks of papers arranged in perfect right angles.

This is where he works on policy papers and research projects. Where he maintains his perfect GPA and builds his perfect future.

Nothing sinister. Nothing suspicious.

Except.

Except I'm looking for the jacket he was wearing that night. The night of my nightmare. The night he claims he was three hundred miles away.

If I can find it—if I can find any evidence that contradicts his alibi—then I'll know. I'll have proof that my memories are real, that he lied to me, that something is fundamentally wrong.

I start with the closet in the bedroom. Rows of expensive suits and casual wear, all organized by color and season. I run my hands over jackets and shirts, looking for—what? Blood? Dirt? Some telltale sign that he was here that night?

Nothing.

I move back to the office and start going through desk drawers with shaking hands. The top drawer contains pens and paper clips and sticky notes—normal office supplies. The second has files labeled with class names and project titles.

The third drawer is locked.

My heart starts pounding.

Why would he lock a drawer in his private office? What could possibly be in there that requires that level of security?

I'm searching for a key when my hand brushes against something on the side of the bookshelf. A decorative wooden panel that feels slightly different from the others—smoother, more fitted.

I press harder, and there's a heavy, mechanical click that echoes through the quiet room.

The entire section of bookshelf swings inward on silent hinges.

Behind it is a door. Heavy steel, biometric lock panel glowing faintly blue. The kind of security you'd expect on a bank vault, not a college student's office.

My hand is trembling as I reach for the handle.

It shouldn't open. This is clearly meant to be locked, secured, completely inaccessible to anyone without the right fingerprints or codes.

But when I push, the door swings open.

He forgot to engage the secondary deadbolt.

Or he thought I'd never find it.

Or—

The thoughts scatter as I stare into the darkness beyond the door.

It's not another room. It's a corridor. Concrete walls, harsh overhead lights that flicker on automatically as I step forward, cold air that smells like disinfectant and something metallic.

This isn't a private study. This isn't a wine cellar or storage space or any of the normal things you might hide behind a secret door.

This is something else entirely.

I should turn around. Should close the door and pretend I never found it. Should leave the penthouse and never come back.

But my feet are already moving, carrying me forward into the corridor, down concrete stairs that descend into the belly of the building.

Some doors are locked for your own protection, Sunflower. The monsters belong in the dark.

He said that once, weeks ago, when I asked why certain areas of campus were off-limits. I thought it was metaphorical. A poetic way of saying there are dangerous places in the world.

Now I'm descending into literal darkness, and his words echo in my head like a warning I should have heeded.

The stairs go down farther than they should. Farther than a single floor, farther than a basement level. Down and down until my ears pop from the pressure change and the air gets colder with each step.

How deep does this go?

How much of Landon's penthouse is above ground, and how much is hidden beneath?

I reach a landing, and the overhead lights illuminate another door. This one is simpler—heavy metal, industrial, the kind you'd find in a warehouse or facility that needs serious security.

There's a small window set into it at eye level.

I look through.

And the flawless, golden illusion of my entire life shatters into a million jagged, blood-soaked pieces.
_______________

Hey loves, quick update.
Will she find it out? but trust me... you're going to love what's coming. The next chapters? Twists, turns, pure madness. You're not ready for it.

Thank you so much for sticking with me—I appreciate you all more than you know
—EVA