Chapter 2: The Weight of Her Name
The phone rang just past midnight.
Elara sat up too fast, the sheets tangling around her legs. Her heart didn't wake up gradually—it detonated.
She fumbled for her phone on the nightstand, eyes still adjusting. Unknown number. Area code from Midtown.
"Hello?" she said, already out of bed, already looking for her jeans.
"Miss Quinn," a familiar voice said. "This is Dr. Harel from St. Augustine's Neuro Trauma. I'm calling about your sister."
The world tilted.
"What happened?" she said, voice sharp and small.
"There's no emergency," he said quickly. "But... her vitals spiked twenty minutes ago. Blood pressure, heart rate. She's stable again, but we've never seen a shift like this in her chart since her admission."
Elara's breath caught. "Could that mean she's—waking up?"
The pause was too long.
"It's too early to say," he said. "But I thought you'd want to know. You're listed as her primary contact."
Elara sat down hard on the edge of her bed.
"She's still unconscious?"
"Yes. But the pattern was... unusual."
"What kind of unusual?"
"She seemed to respond to stimulus."
Elara's mouth went dry. "What stimulus?"
There was another pause. "We don't know. The nurse had just stepped out. But a note was left on the nightstand, addressed to you."
Elara stood again. Her hands were already searching for keys, jacket, anything.
"Was it signed?" she asked.
"Yes," the doctor said. "Just initials. 'CB.'"
She hung up without saying goodbye.
The cab driver didn't ask questions.
Elara's hair was still damp when she stepped into the hospital's main lobby, hoodie pulled low, eyes sharp. She knew the path to the neuro wing by heart. Past the vending machines. Past the nurse with the tired eyes and the security guard who didn't look up from his crossword.
The hallway to Celine's room was dark.
Room 618. Always 618.
Elara pushed open the door and stepped inside, the familiar smell of antiseptic and stale lilies wrapping around her like a shroud.
Celine lay in the bed, unmoving.
Her sister's face—so beautiful in photos, in ads, on billboards—was now pale and too still, her cheekbones sharp under the harsh fluorescent light. Her long lashes barely flickered. The monitor beeped in rhythm beside her, green and relentless.
Elara's throat tightened.
She didn't speak. Just moved slowly toward the nightstand. That's where the nurse said it would be.
And there it was.
A small, folded note.
She picked it up with trembling fingers.
Same sharp handwriting. Same initials. CB.
"You asked what I had to do with her. You'll never understand from the outside. Three days, Elara. After that, you lose her forever."
No signature. No explanation.
Just that slow burn of control, curling itself into her stomach like poison.
She turned back to Celine.
"Did you do this?" she whispered. "Did you know him?"
The only answer was the soft hiss of machines, the gentle rise and fall of her sister's chest.
But on the monitor, one line jumped—just slightly—as if responding.
Elara's skin prickled.
She reached for her sister's hand. Cold. Still.
But when she squeezed—very gently—she could've sworn one of Celine's fingers twitched.
She didn't hear the door open.
She only felt it—the subtle change in air, the faint click of heels too expensive for any nurse, the smell of perfume that cost more than Elara's rent.
Elara turned slowly.
Vivienne Quinn stood in the doorway like she belonged to a different world entirely. Black sheath dress, heels like weapons, diamond earrings, and that same expression she'd worn at every gala: amused disappointment.
"You always look exhausted in hospital lighting," her mother said.
Elara didn't answer. She let go of Celine's hand and stepped away, arms crossing over her chest.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
Vivienne closed the door with a soft click and moved toward the empty chair on the other side of the bed.
"The doctor called me as well. Said there was a change."
"You haven't visited in weeks."
Vivienne arched a perfectly manicured brow. "I didn't realize you kept a log."
"I keep a lot of things you don't, Mother. Guilt, for example."
Vivienne didn't flinch. She never did.
She reached out, gently brushing a hair from Celine's forehead. Her touch was practiced, not tender.
"She still looks like a doll," she murmured. "All that beauty. Frozen. Tragic, really."
Elara's fingers tightened around her elbows.
"She's not tragic. She's alive."
"For now."
The silence between them stretched, brittle and sharp.
Then Vivienne looked up, eyes cool. "So what did he offer you?"
Elara blinked. "What?"
"Caelum Blackthorn," her mother said, like reciting a wine label. "He doesn't make gestures unless he's cornering someone. And he doesn't leave notes unless it's to remind you he already knows how the story ends."
Elara's heart skipped.
"You knew he'd contact me."
Vivienne tilted her head. "I suspected. That photo of Celine and Richard Blackthorn? Not as buried as you think."
Elara took a slow step forward. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you weren't ready," Vivienne said, standing now, brushing invisible dust from her sleeves. "And because I know you, Elara. You'll say no until your pride runs dry, and then—"
Her mother paused at the door, smiled faintly.
"Then you'll crawl right into his trap, thinking it was your idea."
She didn't go home right away.
Instead, Elara walked the streets like the city might cough up answers if she stepped on the right cracks. Her hands were deep in her coat pockets, the note from Caelum crumpled into her palm like a stone she couldn't put down.
She kept looking over her shoulder.
She hated that it made her feel paranoid. Hated more that it didn't feel like paranoia—it felt like instinct.
It wasn't until she stepped into the bodega near her building that she noticed it.
The man behind her in line—same one who'd been three rows back on the subway. Same jacket. Same bored posture. Too casual to be real.
She turned around fully this time. He didn't even blink.
"Problem?" he asked, in that practiced, empty way men use when they want you to feel like you're overreacting.
She stared at him.
He stared right back.
"No," she said quietly. "Not yet."
He left before she did. Didn't buy anything.
Elara walked two blocks past her apartment just to be sure he wasn't following. Then she doubled back through the alley behind the building and slipped in through the rear stairs.
She checked the hallway. Empty.
When she finally closed her apartment door behind her, she leaned against it and pulled out her phone.
There were two notifications she didn't remember allowing: one from a location-sharing app she'd never installed, another from a calendar sync linked to an unfamiliar email.
Both traced back to Blackthorn Holdings.
Her mouth went dry.
She pulled the battery from her phone, just in case.
Then she moved to the kitchen, opened the drawer where she kept her junk mail—and pulled out the envelope again.
The photo of Celine stared back at her.
If he was watching her, it wasn't just a game anymore.
She didn't knock.
The receptionist at Blackthorn Holdings barely had time to blink before Elara stalked past her, straight to the elevator. Two security guards moved—too slow. Elara jammed her finger on the button and gave them a look that made them hesitate.
The top floor opened into a wall of silence and glass.
Caelum's office was massive, minimal, built like a throne room—high ceilings, black granite, one long wall of windows facing the skyline. The only color came from a single dark red orchid in a glass vase. It looked like it had been chosen for intimidation.
He looked up when she walked in.
No surprise. No irritation. Just the faintest arch of an eyebrow, like he'd been waiting for her.
"Miss Quinn," he said, standing slowly. "I take it you got my message."
"You're tracking my phone," she snapped.
"I am."
"You had someone follow me."
"Yes."
"You left a note at my sister's hospital bed."
"I did."
Her fists clenched. "You don't even try to deny it?"
"Why would I?" Caelum said calmly. "You were never going to trust me, Elara. At least now you don't have to wonder."
She took three steps forward, the marble floor cold beneath her boots.
"Give me the information," she said. "Everything you have on Celine. Or I'll go to the press."
He looked almost amused.
"The press?" he said. "With what? A vague threat from a man who's never been publicly photographed with your sister? A note with no fingerprints? A photo that proves she stood next to someone once?"
Elara's breath caught.
He stepped around the desk. Not close—just enough to make the distance feel intentional.
"I offered you a clean deal," he said. "One year. My world, my rules. In exchange: the truth."
"I don't want your world," she said.
"You already live in it," Caelum replied. "I just offered you a seat at the table."
Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket.
When she pulled it out, the screen was blank—but then lit up with a single message:
72 hours remaining.
She looked up.
His expression hadn't changed.
"You have until the deadline," he said, voice quiet now. "Then the offer vanishes. And with it, everything you want."