A bloodied body. Olivia's fake sobs echoing like a cheap soap opera. Her parents clutched her like she was the tragic heroine, not the manipulative schemer. Tristan hovered in the background, ever the loyal knight, glaring down at Melisa's corpse as if she owed him something even in death. Then—someone was running. Toward her. Blurry, frantic, desperate.
Melisa screamed.
The sound sliced through the dark like glass, waking both the night and the man who had finally fallen asleep .
Leonard jerked awake. His usual I-don't-care face was replaced by something unfamiliar—slight panic. Or maybe confusion. "What happened?"
Melisa was still gasping, sweat slick on her brow, her hands clenched in the sheets like she'd just clawed her way out of a grave. She didn't answer. Didn't have to. The silence said everything.
Leonard blinked the sleep out of his eyes. "You okay?"
She nodded, which was a lie, and he didn't buy it for a second.
"Do you need water?"
Melisa turned to him, dazed. "Huh?"
He was already handing her a glass like it was part of some unspoken agreement. Water for trauma. Businesslike and practical. Very Leonard.
"Thanks," she muttered, taking a sip and willing the nightmare to evaporate with it.
"What was the dream about?" he asked, more softly this time, which somehow made it worse.
"Nothing." She set the glass down, lying with the ease of someone who had done this her entire life. "Just... a dream."
Leonard raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. He was annoyingly good at reading the room, and apparently, tonight's script didn't allow for questions.
"Go to sleep," he said, settling back down.
"Mm," she responded, already knowing she wouldn't.
She lay there, eyes wide open in the dark, replaying that last part of the dream. Who was that running toward her body? Why did it feel like the answer was on the tip of her tongue but kept slipping away? It hadn't happened in any of the earlier dreams. This was new. And she didn't like new.
The wind whispered through the window crack like a nosy aunt, but even it had no answers.
Eventually, exhaustion won, dragging her under.
By the time sunlight painted golden stripes across the curtains, Melisa stirred again. Her first instinct was to glance at the couch—empty.
Leonard had probably left early, the way he always did, with the quiet efficiency of someone who treated mornings like enemy territory.
She washed up quickly. Her reflection showed the ghosts of the night under her eyes. Concealer did its job, mostly. Enough to fool everyone. Hopefully.
Downstairs, the dining room had a strange calm. Aunt Eleanor, who usually avoided early breakfasts like the plague, was already seated. That should've been a red flag.
"Good morning," Melisa greeted, slipping into her chair like a polite interloper.
"Good morning, dear," Aunt Eleanor replied, voice too soft, too pleasant.
"Morning, Melisa," Uncle George chimed in, which meant something was definitely up.
Leonard, already at the table, gave a silent nod. But his gaze lingered. Just a fraction longer than it should have. Just enough for Melisa to feel like her concealer had failed her.
She looked away first.
Uncle George cleared his throat. "Melisa, you're still working as an assistant, right?"
There it was.
"Yes, Uncle George," she answered cautiously. No sudden movements. The trap hadn't sprung yet, but it was close.
"I was thinking," he said, far too cheerfully, "why not come work at Soveir Group instead? Leonard could use a capable assistant."
And there it was—the ambush in broad daylight.
Melisa's brain clicked into damage control. "Uncle George, I appreciate the offer, but... wouldn't people talk? They might think I only got in through connections. It wouldn't reflect well on the company."
"You're family," he said, waving a hand. "Besides, you're competent. Let them talk."
Competent. That was... generous.
"I just think it's too sudden. Maybe give me some time to consider?" she deflected, knowing full well there was no real way out without stepping on toes.
"Of course." Uncle George smiled knowingly, like he'd already marked her name on an employee list somewhere. "No pressure."
Then he turned to his son and gave him a look that screamed Your move, buddy.
Leonard, ever composed, promptly choked on his water.
Aunt Eleanor patted his back with the amused exasperation of a mother who had seen this too many times before. Melisa pretended not to notice.
And just like that, the tension vanished into buttered toast and fruit platters.
---
Later that morning, the house emptied one by one. Uncle George to work. Leonard with him. The maids resumed their routine.
Only Aunt Eleanor remained, parked in the sitting room with the TV murmuring nonsense in the background.
But her eyes weren't on the screen. They kept drifting to the window, then to the clock, and back to the door.
Then came the distant rumble of a car.
She stood immediately.
Her heels clicked against the floor as she rushed to the front step, heart thudding with an eagerness she didn't bother hiding. The car rolled into the driveway like a scene on repeat—one she'd played over in her mind for weeks.
Her troublesome youngest son was finally home.