Minutes stretched like hours before the knock came. Three soft taps, then a pause. Elias's code.
I rushed to the door and cracked it open, relief flooding me the second I saw him.
His hair was disheveled, eyes sharp with concern. He stepped in without a word, his presence immediately grounding me.
"The rose," I murmured, gesturing toward the bed.
Elias approached it carefully, gloved hands already pulling a small evidence bag from his coat. He examined the flower with silent precision, slipping it into the bag like it was a bomb.
"Any cameras?" I asked, my voice thin.
He shook his head grimly. "I checked the dorm building footage before I got here. It's been wiped—completely. He either hacked it or had someone do it."
That hollow feeling in my chest deepened.
"How long… was he here?" I whispered.
Elias didn't answer. He didn't have to.
Instead, he swept his eyes across my room with a hunter's intensity. He checked the windows, the vents, even beneath the bed. Then, he stopped.
"What's that?" he muttered.
I followed his gaze to my desk. My laptop was closed now.
I hadn't touched it.
I moved slowly toward it, adrenaline crashing over me again. Elias reached it first and flipped the screen open.
A new tab was open. A message box. Typed but unsent.
You've always belonged to me. Even if I have to change the world to make it so.
My breath caught. My stomach turned to ice.
"I didn't write that," I croaked. "I swear—"
"I know," Elias said quietly. His face was hard now, jaw clenched. "He did."
He was here, sitting at my desk, while I slept.
Suddenly, something else caught my eye. A pale, worn object resting on top of my closed journal.
My throat dried instantly.
It was an old photo. My childhood photo. One I hadn't seen in over a decade—me in my first acting class, maybe seven years old, red hair tied in ribbons, cheeks flushed from stage fright.
I hadn't had a copy of this picture in years. No one had. Except my parents. And they were long gone.
"Scarlett…" Elias picked it up carefully, reading the scrawled handwriting on the back.
"She was meant to perform for me."
It wasn't signed.
It didn't have to be.
"I never showed anyone this photo," I whispered, stunned. "Not even James."
Elias stared at it, then looked at me, his expression unreadable. "He's had it for years. He's been planning this far longer than we thought."
I collapsed into my desk chair, a cold sweat sliding down my spine. The rose was a warning. The photo was a promise.
Elias crouched in front of me, his voice low and steady. "This is psychological warfare. He wants you to feel watched. Owned. Controlled."
"He's succeeding," I admitted, voice breaking.
Elias reached out, gently cupping my shoulder. "Then we make sure he doesn't win."
For a moment, we just breathed. The silence between us wasn't empty—it was survival.
And then, beneath it all, a terrifying realization pulsed through me like a second heartbeat:
If he could get in tonight, he could do it again.