The iron gates of the Hartwell bungalow slid shut behind Oliver Kingsley's car with a low metallic groan.
Too slow.
That was the first thing Oliver felt as he stepped out into the rain. The estate was vast—manicured lawns glistening under garden lights, fountains murmuring like they knew secrets—but something about it pressed on his chest. The bungalow stood tall and elegant, all glass and marble and money, yet tonight it looked… watchful.
Oliver glanced at the upper floor.
One light flickered.
Then went dark.
"Amelia," he muttered, already moving.
The front door was unlocked.
That alone was wrong.
Inside, the air was colder than it should have been. Not air-conditioned cold—grave-cold. His shoes echoed too loudly on the marble floor, each step sounding like an announcement.
"Amelia?" His voice vanished into the space.
The chandelier above him swayed gently.
There was no wind.
He climbed the stairs two at a time. Halfway up, his phone buzzed.
Amelia: He knows you're here.
Oliver stopped.
"Who?" he typed quickly.
The message showed Read.
No reply came.
At the end of the corridor, Amelia's bedroom door was open. Light spilled out, harsh and trembling. He stepped inside—and froze.
Amelia sat on the edge of the bed, shaking, her arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes were wide, unfocused, as if she was staring at something only she could see.
"Amelia." Oliver crossed the room. "Hey. I'm here."
She flinched violently.
"Don't—don't stand there," she whispered. "He was just there."
Oliver knelt in front of her. "There's no one else here. You're safe."
Her gaze dropped to the mirror behind him.
"Oliver…" Her voice broke. "Please don't turn around."
A chill crawled up his spine.
Slowly, against every instinct screaming not to, Oliver turned his head.
The mirror showed the room clearly.
And behind him—
A shadow.
Tall. Still. Wrong.
It stood where the wall should have been, wearing the shape of a man without committing to it. Its outline shimmered like heat over asphalt. Where a face should be, darkness folded inward.
Oliver spun.
Nothing.
The room was empty.
When he turned back, the mirror was normal again.
Amelia began to cry.
"I thought I was going mad," she said between sobs. "He touched my neck. He knows things. Things only one person knew."
Oliver took her hands. They were ice-cold.
"Who, Amelia?"
She swallowed hard.
"My ex," she whispered. "Sebastian."
The name landed like a gunshot.
Oliver went still. He remembered Sebastian Crowe—charming, dangerous, rich in all the wrong ways. A man who loved Amelia like possession. A man whose funeral they had both attended.
"He's dead," Oliver said firmly.
"I watched him burn," Amelia said, tears spilling freely. "I know he's dead."
The lights flickered violently.
The temperature dropped.
A laugh echoed through the room.
Low. Intimate.
Mocking.
It came from the walls.
From the floor.
From inside Oliver's skull.
"You always were good at lying to her," the voice said.
Amelia screamed.
Oliver stood, placing himself between her and the empty space. "Show yourself," he shouted. "Coward."
The laugh deepened.
The wardrobe doors creaked open by themselves.
Inside, shadows twisted, thickening, pulling together—
Sebastian Crowe stepped out.
This time, he had a face.
Pale. Perfect. Untouched by death except for the eyes—black pits that swallowed light. He looked exactly as he had when alive, dressed in an expensive suit, hair neatly styled, as if he had simply stepped out for the evening.
"Hello, Oliver," Sebastian said pleasantly. "Still following her around?"
Amelia collapsed back onto the bed, sobbing hysterically.
Oliver's legs trembled, but he didn't move. "You're not real."
Sebastian smiled. "Neither is the future you imagined with her."
He turned his gaze to Amelia, and his voice softened—dangerously.
"I told you I'd never leave."
Sebastian took one step forward.
The floor cracked beneath his foot.
Oliver felt a sudden pressure in his chest, like invisible hands squeezing his lungs. He gasped, falling to one knee.
Sebastian leaned closer to Amelia, his breath frosting the air.
"She belongs to me," he whispered. "And anyone who stands in the way…"
He glanced at Oliver.
"…dies first."
The lights exploded.
Glass shattered.
Darkness swallowed the room.
And in that darkness, Amelia heard something worse than a threat—
A promise.