The city never truly slept, but Samantha did.
Or at least she tried.
The night had stretched into an endless reel of fragments — Nick's haunted eyes, Kate's trembling hands clutching her phone, and Sophia's soft, innocent voice echoing through the hallway. "Ally."
That one word had cut through her like a whisper from the past.
Now, in the quiet hours before dawn, she stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse, arms wrapped around herself. The skyline glittered beneath her like a bed of diamonds scattered across velvet. The hum of traffic below was a dull reminder that life continued — even when the ghosts refused to rest.
Her reflection stared back from the glass — flawless, poised, and perfectly still.
But behind the elegance, her pulse betrayed her. Her chest rose too fast, her fingers twitched when the memory came — the way Nick had looked at her last night, confused, aching, almost pleading.
She had walked away before he could say another word. And yet, here she was — standing in her own home, unable to shake the image of his eyes.
She exhaled sharply and turned away from the window.
Get a grip, Samantha.
The penthouse was still bathed in silver morning light. Everything was exactly where it should be — clean lines, quiet luxury, no trace of disorder. Except for her.
By the time Jake woke, the sun was a pale spill of gold across the marble floors. He found her sitting at the kitchen island, a cup of untouched coffee in front of her, her eyes distant.
He leaned against the doorway, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair still damp from the shower. The sight of her — so composed yet so clearly somewhere else — stirred something deep and familiar in him.
"Tell me you at least slept for a few hours," he said softly, a teasing smile touching his lips.
Samantha didn't look up. "Does it count if I closed my eyes and stared at memories instead of dreams?"
Jake chuckled under his breath, walking closer. "Depends. Were those memories friendly ghosts or the ones that throw plates?"
Her lips curved faintly. "Definitely the latter."
He reached over and poured himself a cup of coffee, watching her over the rim as he sipped. "You've been like this since you got back. The last time I saw you this restless, we were twenty and you'd just found out Nick Carter kissed another girl at some college party."
Samantha gave him a sharp glance — part warning, part amusement. "I'm not that girl anymore, Jake."
He smiled. "I know. But she's still in there somewhere. Just… quieter."
That made her pause. She looked at him then — really looked. He wasn't teasing anymore. His voice had softened, his expression unreadable.
"You think I'm haunted," she said.
He shrugged. "I think you're human. Which, for you, is dangerously close to being haunted."
She almost smiled at that, but instead she stood and walked to the living room, her silk robe brushing lightly against her legs. The scent of her perfume — jasmine and something sharper — trailed behind her.
Jake followed, leaning against the back of the couch as she gazed once again at the skyline. "It's strange," she said after a long silence. "Being there again. In that house. Every inch of it is the same, yet everything feels… different. Wrong. It's like walking into a memory that's been tampered with."
He didn't answer immediately. "You're not supposed to go back, Sam. That place was built to break you. You walk in as yourself, and it tries to carve pieces out of you until you forget who you were."
She turned, meeting his eyes. "Then maybe it's time I remind it who I am."
Jake's gaze softened. "Just don't lose yourself doing it."
Samantha's tone was calm, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable. "You think I'd fall apart again?"
"I think you've rebuilt yourself into something bulletproof," he said, walking around the couch until he was standing beside her. "But sometimes… armor gets heavy. Especially when you wear it too long."
For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
The city hummed below. The morning light framed them in gold.
Then, quietly, Samantha said, "You're worried I'll get emotionally tangled again."
Jake didn't deny it. "You're playing a dangerous game, Sam. The closer you get to them, the easier it is for the past to find its way back in. Nick, Kate, all of them — they don't deserve the space they're still renting in your head."
Her laugh was soft, humorless. "Don't worry, Jake. I don't bleed anymore."
The words hung between them — sharp, final, but fragile. He hated how she said it, like it was both a shield and a wound.
Jake stepped closer, close enough that she could feel his warmth. "That's not true," he murmured. "You bleed — you just don't let anyone see it."
Her breath caught for the briefest second. But then, just as quickly, she turned away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're reading too much into it. I'm fine."
"You're lying," Jake said, his tone low but steady. "And you're terrible at it when you're tired."
Samantha turned her head sharply — to protest, maybe — but then something in his expression stopped her. Concern, yes, but something deeper too. The kind of worry that only comes from someone who's seen you at your absolute worst and still chooses to stay.
Her voice softened. "Jake, you don't need to protect me from ghosts."
He smiled sadly. "I'm not trying to protect you from ghosts, Sam. I'm trying to protect you from yourself."
For a long time, neither moved. The air between them shifted — no longer heavy with tension, but something else. Something tender, unspoken.
He reached for the mug still in her hand, brushing her fingers in the process. His touch was warm, grounding. "You need sleep," he said. "Even storms rest, you know."
Samantha tilted her head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "And what happens when a storm rests?"
Jake's eyes flickered with something unreadable. "It comes back stronger."
She held his gaze — steady, searching — then finally smiled, a small, genuine curve of her lips. "Then maybe I'll sleep after all."
He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "Good. Because tomorrow, we start digging. Chloe's accounts, Kate's transactions, everything. If you're going to bring them down, I want you sharp."
Samantha reached for her scarf from the couch, draping it around her shoulders. "Don't worry. I intend to be sharper than ever."
Jake lingered by the window, watching her cross the room with the quiet poise of someone in control of every breath, every movement. Yet beneath that composure, he saw it — the tiny crack, the flicker of exhaustion, the ache of something she'd never admit out loud.
He didn't stop her when she disappeared into her room.
He just stood there, coffee cooling in his hand, wondering how much of her was still Ally — and how much had turned into something entirely different.
*****
Hours later, as the city bloomed into day, Samantha lay in her bed, the silk sheets cool against her skin. She stared at the ceiling, her mind a storm of images she couldn't silence.
Nick's voice — soft, uncertain.
Kate's trembling hands.
Sophia's small, innocent eyes.
She closed her eyes and pressed her palm against her chest, as if to steady her heartbeat.
"I don't bleed anymore," she whispered to the dark.
But even she didn't believe it.
---
When Samantha finally fell asleep, Jake stood outside her door for a long moment before turning away.
He moved to the study, reopened his laptop, and began typing. The glow from the screen reflected in his eyes — a mix of focus and quiet fear.
He was going to protect her, even if it meant protecting her from the truth she wasn't ready to face.
And somewhere, in the quiet of the penthouse, Samantha dreamed — of a mansion filled with ghosts, of a man who once promised forever, and of another who would burn the world just to keep her safe.