Aria's POV
I couldn't stop watching the video.
Three in the morning, and I'd replayed it forty-seven times. Each time, I hoped I'd see something different. Each time, Kira's terrified face stared back at me, whispering words that made no sense.
"You were there when it happened."
My laptop screen glowed in the darkness. I should've been working on the logo design due tomorrow. Instead, my fingers hovered over the search bar, typing words I'd avoided for five years.
Damien Cross.
My first love. My best friend. The boy who'd promised to always protect me and then vanished the week after Kira's funeral without a single goodbye.
I hit enter before I could stop myself.
The results flooded my screen, and my breath caught. This wasn't the eighteen-year-old boy I remembered. This was someone completely different.
"Dr. Damien Cross, Founder of Cross Recovery Institute"
"Leading Trauma Psychologist Helps Abuse Survivors Reclaim Their Lives"
"Azure Bay's Rising Star in Mental Health Treatment"
Photo after photo showed a man who looked like Damien but harder, sharper, more dangerous. In one picture, he stood in front of a sleek building wearing an expensive suit, his silver-grey eyes cold and distant. In another, he was speaking at a conference, commanding the stage like he owned it.
He'd become everything. I'd become nothing.
The thought made my chest ache.
"Mommy?"
I slammed the laptop shut as Lily shuffled into the room, dragging her rabbit.
"Bad dream, baby?"
She nodded, crawling into my lap. I held her close, breathing in her little-girl smell, letting her innocence push away the darkness for a moment.
"Tell me a story," she whispered.
So I did. I told her about a princess who was brave even when she was scared, who protected everyone she loved, who never gave up even when things seemed impossible.
I told her the story I wished was mine.
By the time Lily fell back asleep, dawn was breaking. I had three hours before I needed to leave for my waitressing shift. Three hours to make a decision that terrified me.
I opened my laptop again.
The Cross Recovery Institute had a phone number. And according to their website, they specialized in helping survivors of domestic abuse recover from trauma and gas lighting.
My hands shook as I stared at those words.
Gaslighting.
That's what Marcus had done to me, wasn't it? Made me doubt my own mind. Made me think I was crazy, unstable, forgetting things. Made me completely dependent on him to tell me what was real.
What if he'd made me forget the night of the fire too?
What if Kira was telling the truth?
I needed help. Real help. And there was only one person who might understand what was happening to me—someone who knew both Kira and me, someone who'd known us before everything fell apart.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my phone and dialed.
It rang once. Twice. My heart hammered against my ribs.
"Cross Recovery Institute, this is Jennifer speaking. How may I help you?"
The voice was professional, warm. I almost hung up.
"I—" My voice came out as a whisper. "I need to speak with Dr. Cross."
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No, but it's... it's an emergency. It's about someone who died. Or maybe didn't die. I don't know anymore."
I sounded insane. This was a mistake.
"I'm sorry, but Dr. Cross's schedule is fully booked for the next three months. I can put you on our waiting list, or I can schedule you with one of our other excellent therapists—"
"Please." Desperation clawed at my throat. "Just tell him... tell him it's about Aria Bennett. And Kira Walsh. He'll understand."
Silence stretched across the line. Had she hung up?
"Hold please."
Classical music filled my ear. I paced my tiny kitchen, counting the seconds. Thirty. Sixty. Ninety.
This was stupid. He probably didn't even remember me. It had been five years. He'd moved on, built an empire, became someone important. Why would he care about
"Ms. Bennett?" Jennifer's voice returned, but it sounded different. Surprised. "Dr. Cross will see you today at two o'clock. Please arrive fifteen minutes early to complete intake paperwork."
My legs almost gave out. "Today? But you said he was booked for—"
"He cleared his schedule." There was curiosity in her tone now. "The address is 1247 Harbor Drive in Azure Bay. We'll see you at two."
The line went dead.
I stood frozen in my kitchen, phone clutched in my trembling hand. He'd cleared his entire schedule. For me. After five years of silence, one mention of my name and he'd dropped everything.
What did that mean?
The morning passed in a blur. I called in sick to the diner—which would definitely get me fired, but I couldn't think about that now. I asked Sophie to pick up Lily from daycare. I showered, changed three times, tried to make myself look like someone worth remembering.
By one o'clock, I was in my car, driving toward Azure Bay with my heart in my throat.
By one-thirty, I was parked outside the sleek glass building that housed the Cross Recovery Institute, too terrified to go inside.
What would I even say to him? Hi, remember me? The girl you abandoned? The one who married a monster? Oh, and by the way, I think my dead best friend might be alive and sending me creepy videos?
My phone buzzed. Another message from the unknown number.
I opened it with shaking hands.
This time, the photo showed Damien. Recent, maybe from today. He was getting into an expensive car outside this very building.
Below the photo: "Careful who you trust, Aria. Damien has secrets too. Ask him where he really was the night of the fire."
The phone slipped from my hands.
No. No, no, no.
Damien couldn't be involved in this. He'd left town after the fire. He was just a kid back then. He couldn't have—
But what if he could?
What if everyone I'd ever trusted had been lying to me?
The building doors opened, and a man stepped out. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with predatory grace. Even from a distance, I recognized him.
Damien.
He looked directly at my car, those silver-grey eyes locking onto mine through the windshield.
And he smiled.