The light of morning was cruel—too bright, too soft.
It had no business touching someone like her.
Not after everything.
Harriet stood before the mirror, wrapped in a silk robe that used to make her feel expensive. Now it clung to her like guilt. Her fingers brushed over the side of her neck where bruises used to live. Leo's fingerprints. Aubrey's lies. Her own silence.
None of them had marked her this time.
Not yet.
But they would try.
> "You look like you haven't slept," Mira said, stepping into the shared dressing room at the agency.
Harriet didn't respond. She applied lipstick slowly, like she was sharpening a blade. Crimson. The color of a woman with nothing left to lose.
Mira leaned in, smiling at her reflection like they were friends. "Heard about your audition yesterday. Nadine was impressed."
"You must be thrilled for me," Harriet murmured.
"Of course." Mira tilted her head, smirking. "After all, it's not every day someone comes back from the dead."
Harriet's hand froze mid-stroke. Mira's smile flickered, just for a second.
Wrong choice of words?
No.
It was a warning.
There were whispers, Harriet realized. Already. About her return. Her sudden rise after the fall. Someone was watching her closely—and not just Zayne.
---
Later that day, Harriet found herself at a rooftop café in SoHo. The kind of place full of influencers and "It" girls, pretending not to compete while comparing their lives through filters.
She sat alone with a black coffee and a notebook, phone facedown.
A shadow fell across her table.
"Didn't expect to find you here," Zayne said, sliding into the chair across from her like it was his seat all along.
He wore black—button-up shirt, tailored slacks, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the edge of a tattoo on his forearm. She couldn't read it. She wasn't sure she wanted to.
"How do you keep finding me?" she asked, not looking up.
"I don't keep finding you." His tone was even. "You just keep walking toward the danger."
Harriet took a sip of her coffee. "I don't scare easy."
"Neither does fire," he said. "But it still burns everything it touches."
She looked at him finally. "Why do you care?"
Zayne didn't answer right away. His eyes, too sharp and too quiet, searched her face.
"I knew the version of you that died," he said. "She was soft. Beautiful. Naive. This version... I'm still deciding."
"Maybe you shouldn't waste your time."
He leaned forward. "Or maybe I know what it's like to come back wrong."
That got her.
There was something cracked behind his voice. Like he wasn't just talking about her.
But he stood, just as quickly, and dropped a card on the table.
> CARTER AGENCY — PRIVATE CONSULTING.
"You're being hunted, Harriet. They don't like that you're alive."
He paused. "And neither does your murderer."
Her throat went dry. "Do you know who—?"
"Not yet."
He gave her one last look. "But you will."
Then he was gone.
---
Back at her apartment, Harriet stood in front of the mirror again. The same face. But now there were ghosts in her eyes. Shadows behind every thought.
Her phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown contact.
> "Congratulations on surviving. Let's see how long it lasts."
Her chest tightened.
But she didn't flinch.
Instead, she picked up her notebook. Opened to the page marked Retribution List.
She added one more name beneath it:
> 6. Unknown. For threatening me like I'm still the girl who broke.
She clicked her pen.
Then turned the page.
---
She was running.
Out the fire exit of the Avalon Hotel's rooftop, heels in one hand, the other gripping the side rail like it could anchor her to sanity. Her dress was torn at the hem, her face streaked with tears and rage.
They had all seen it. The video. The staged scandal.
Leo hadn't even defended her.
Aubrey had made sure the whole room laughed.
She burst through the last door—onto the open rooftop. The city lights below mocked her, glittering like teeth.
"Harriet, stop!"
Leo's voice cut through the air like a blade.
She turned to see him walking toward her—alone. But not rushed. Not sorry.
"You think this ends with you running away?" he said, eyes dark, voice low.
"You let them destroy me," she hissed. "You let her—"
"I told you not to get in her way."
Her heart dropped. "So it was you," she whispered.
Leo stepped closer. Too close.
"You were a phase, Harriet. A tool. Don't make this uglier than it needs to be."
She backed up. Her heel hit the low barrier wall.
One more step and—
He didn't reach out. He didn't pull her down.
He just watched.
And then, whether it was fear, panic, or the cruelest twist of fate—
She slipped.
The wind tore the scream from her lips before the ground ever had the chance.
---
PRESENT
Harriet gasped, clutching the edge of her kitchen counter.
The image was clear now.
Leo hadn't pushed her.
He had done something worse.
He let her fall.
ZAYNE
He wasn't a man prone to obsession.
But ever since Harriet's death, Zayne Carter hadn't stopped watching.
At first, it was guilt. He'd seen the warning signs—the panic in her eyes at that party, the way Leo paraded her like a trophy and ignored her behind closed doors. Zayne had been silent when he should have spoken.
But guilt turned into something sharper when her body was recovered too quickly.
When the autopsy was sealed too tightly.
When Leo smiled too soon at a press conference.
Now, it was conviction.
So when his private investigator sent a photo of a woman stepping out of a dry cleaner on 7th Avenue with Harriet's posture, Harriet's jawline—even if she wore sunglasses and a new haircut—Zayne felt his world shift.
It wasn't just suspicion anymore.
It was her.
Alive.
---
He didn't approach her. Not yet.
Instead, he followed—always from a distance. Always with care.
Harriet didn't move like someone rebuilding a life quietly.
She moved like someone hunting.
She avoided cameras. She never visited old friends. She rented a one-bedroom under the name H. Lake. A ghost with just enough fire behind her eyes to suggest she wasn't done.
He'd seen her outside Kingsley & Co. PR just last week, standing across the street for nearly twenty minutes before walking away without a word.
Leo's firm.
Aubrey's playground.
Zayne had seen enough games to know a setup when he smelled one. He didn't know her endgame, but he knew Harriet wasn't back for peace.
She was back for justice.
---
That afternoon, his burner phone buzzed—a text from his investigator.
> NEW FOOTAGE: Someone else is tracking her.
Zayne frowned and opened the attachment.
Harriet at a small café, sipping tea alone.
In the corner of the security footage: a blurred figure sitting two tables behind her. The same man in at least three other locations this week. Same hat. Same coat. Never interacted. Never moved first.
Until today.
This time, the man stood, lingered near her for a breath too long—
And slipped something into her bag.
Zayne stood instantly, grabbing his keys.
No one was going to touch her.
Not again.
---
PRESENT — HARRIET
Harriet sat back on her worn couch, replaying the flashback in her head. That rooftop. That night. The look in Leo's eyes.
He hadn't killed her.
But he had watched her fall.
And in some ways, that was worse.
She picked up her handbag, tossing it onto the counter. Something inside shifted with a strange clink.
A small, unmarked USB drive slid out.
Her blood went cold.
HARRIET
Harriet stared at the tiny USB drive like it was a ticking bomb.
She hadn't put it in her purse. No one had touched her bag. Right?
Wrong. She'd stopped at that tiny café on Westbourne. Left her bag on the back of her chair like an amateur. Great job, Harriet. Perfect way to die—again.
She grabbed a glove from her kitchen drawer—because touching mysterious objects barehanded after your first death seemed like poor decision-making—and slid the USB into her dusty old laptop.
The folder popped up immediately.
"PREY."
"Jesus," she muttered. "That's not ominous at all."
Inside the folder: one video file.
She clicked play.
The screen showed her. At the rooftop party.
A security camera angle—high, grainy, timestamped.
She swallowed hard. This wasn't a memory. It was evidence.
It showed Leo walking toward her.
It showed her backing up.
And it showed—very clearly—that he never reached out to help.
He'd just… watched.
Watched her fall.
Watched her die.
Her fingers hovered over the pause button, but she couldn't stop watching. The person behind this video? They wanted her to see. But why?
And how the hell had they found her?
---
ZAYNE
Across the street, from a car parked just far enough to avoid suspicion, Zayne watched Harriet's apartment window.
His coffee was cold. His patience was thinner. He'd been sitting here for forty-five minutes watching her blinds twitch like a horror movie teaser.
He hated stalking people. Really. It made him feel like some low-budget Netflix villain.
Still, she hadn't noticed the man who followed her at least three times this week. But he had. And now there was something in her bag. Something she hadn't put there.
When he saw the lights inside flicker and Harriet bolt out the door with a laptop in hand, hoodie halfway on, and mismatched sneakers—he cursed under his breath.
"She's gonna get herself killed."
He tossed the coffee, started the car, and followed.
---
HARRIET
Harriet burst into Café Nimbus, laptop bag slung over one shoulder and paranoia riding shotgun in her brain.
"Wi-Fi password?" she asked the barista like it was a matter of national security.
The barista blinked. "Uh… it's 'beanthere123.'"
"Tragic," Harriet muttered, settling into a corner table and opening the laptop.
Her goal was simple: copy the video, trace the metadata, then erase it from existence. What could go wrong?
Five minutes later, she'd downloaded exactly nothing, her VPN crashed, and she was 93% sure she'd just accidentally subscribed to a mailing list called Justice4Crows.
"Cool," she muttered. "Totally fine. I definitely went to college for this."
Then she heard it—a chair scraping beside her.
She tensed.
"Relax," the man said, voice low, British-leaning, and far too familiar.
Harriet turned her head slowly.
Zayne Carter.
In sunglasses. Indoors. At night.
"Oh my God," she whispered. "Are you… following me?"
Zayne looked offended. "Following's a strong word. I prefer… keeping tabs."
Harriet blinked. "You're tailing me like I'm a runaway cat."
"Well, you did fake your death and start hunting your ex with the energy of a rejected Batman villain. Someone's gotta make sure you don't burn London to the ground."
Harriet stared at him. "Do you want me to?"
Zayne smirked. "Let's just say I wouldn't mourn the ashes."
HARRIET
"Zayne, you can't just show up like this. I have a plan."
Zayne sipped her untouched tea like he'd paid for it. "So do assassins. Doesn't mean I trust them either."
Harriet narrowed her eyes. "You're seriously doing this? The overprotective, morally gray hero act?"
He shrugged. "If the gray fits."
She sighed and closed the laptop. "I didn't ask for your help."
"You didn't ask not to be followed either."
"Zayne."
He leaned in, voice low. "Harriet, someone slipped a drive into your purse. You think that's a coincidence?"
Her throat tightened.
She hated this part—being scared. Feeling out of control. It reminded her of the days leading up to the rooftop. The paranoia. The gaslighting. The way Leo and Aubrey turned everything into her fault.
Zayne watched her too closely. Like he could see straight through the hard shell she wore now.
She deflected.
"Did you tail me here in a trench coat with binoculars?"
"I drive an Audi."
"Oh right. All stalkers should be stylish."
Zayne cracked a grin. "Are you always like this, or is death what made you so sarcastic?"
"Death, betrayal, and losing three film awards to a girl who couldn't cry on cue."
He laughed. Actually laughed. And Harriet hated that it sounded real.
Zayne Carter wasn't supposed to laugh around her. Not now. Not after everything.
She pushed her chair back, standing fast. "Thanks for the tea. Don't follow me again."
"Too late."
"Zayne."
But his next words made her freeze.
"I know about the rooftop."
Silence hung like smoke.
She turned slowly. "What?"
"I've seen the footage. The same one you just saw on that drive. The one where Leo does nothing."
Harriet's stomach dropped.
She clutched her bag tighter.
"Someone's playing with you, Harriet," Zayne continued, voice serious now. "They want you back in the open. They want you to make the first move. And they're not just watching you."
"Then who?"
He looked around the café, then back at her. "I think they're watching me too."
---
Back in her apartment that night, Harriet double-locked the door. She pulled the curtains, scanned the street for any parked cars too familiar.
The USB sat on her table like a loaded weapon.
Zayne said someone else was involved. That they might be trying to trap her.
But why now?
Why come after a dead girl?
She paced the room, her fingers twitching to grab a burner phone. To make a call she swore she'd never make again.
Aubrey's voice echoed in her mind:
"You'll never survive without us, darling. You're just a pretty face with a fragile brain."
She smashed a mug just to shut the memory up.
The doorbell rang.
She froze.
It rang again—twice.
No one ever rang her bell. No one was supposed to know she lived here.
Harriet reached for the nearest weapon she could find.
A wine bottle.
Because if she was going down again, she'd at least go down with glass and class.