Iris Holloway — First Person POV
I've learned that the world is never quiet. It's always moving, plotting, judging—but it pretends to ignore you if you walk carefully enough. That's what I told myself as I slipped into the city under my new name, my new face, my new life.
I am no longer Iris Holloway. That woman died quietly, in a courtroom with fluorescent lights flickering over her shame. Now, I am someone else entirely. Someone who observes instead of trusting. Someone who remembers everything, even the small betrayals—the way Clara's hand lingered over mine as if she feared my pain more than she loved me, the way Evelyn's eyes danced over Sebastian Crowne with the hunger of a girl who had been taught to survive at any cost.
I walk past the café on 23rd Street where I used to have lunch with Evelyn, my old job pinned neatly to my résumé like a life I never lived. The café smells the same—warm croissants, bitter coffee—but I don't stop. Nostalgia is a dangerous luxury, and I've learned to pay attention only to what can be used.
I have spent years practicing patience. Years watching, memorizing, cataloging, building the life that allows me to move unseen. A woman with a face like a photograph, polite and forgettable. A woman whose smile invites trust but hides razor edges. People like that are dangerous in a world that believes in appearances.
Today, I am here for a different reason.
I slide through the revolving doors of a building I once haunted under a different name, different ambitions, a different fate. My old office. The place where every careful calculation, every risk, and every step I had taken to build something of my own was reduced to smoke and ash by a lie.
I pause in the lobby, my fingers brushing the cold marble. It is exactly as I remember it—the same polished surfaces, the same dull hum of fluorescent lights, the same portraits of men and women who believed they were untouchable. And in that moment, I am untouchable too. Not because they cannot see me, but because I have become something they do not recognize.
I wear a simple black coat, glasses with frames just thick enough to hide the subtle changes to my face, my hair tied back in a casual knot. I am nothing. Invisible. Yet everything I was, everything I lost, is trapped beneath the surface, simmering.
A receptionist glances up at me as I pass. I smile and nod, a practiced gesture that earns me nothing but a polite return. She doesn't know I was once someone who sat here every day, bright-eyed, ambitious, human, full of trust. That woman is gone. I am shadows and calculation now.
I take the elevator to the 14th floor, moving slowly, deliberately, scanning the floor plan etched in my memory. My old desk, my old office… every object I touch now belongs to someone else. And yet, each item is a thread I can pull. Every habit I left behind can be leveraged, every weakness noted.
I pause outside the door to my old office, now occupied by Evelyn. The nameplate has been replaced, the chair too tall for her slight frame, the photographs gone. But I know the way she moves, the way she breathes when she thinks no one is watching. I have watched from afar for months. And today, I am close enough to feel her presence.
The air is thick with anticipation, the kind you feel before a storm breaks. My pulse quickens. Not from fear, but from the thrill of positioning myself where they least expect me. I can almost hear the echoes of past conversations, the whispers that once convinced me that I was safe, that I was loved. Safe. Loved. Two lies that nearly killed me.
I walk past her office slowly, letting the veneer of a casual visitor settle over me. A client? An interviewer? Someone with questions and no answers? It doesn't matter. She doesn't look up. She never does. The woman who once stole my life is so focused on maintaining her performance, her image, that she does not notice the predator in her path.
I remember every detail. The curve of her smile when she thinks she's won, the way she taps her pen when nervous, the way she assumes I am powerless. These are the tools of revenge. Observation first, understanding second, action later.
I move down the hallway, pretending to study a directory. Every step is measured, every breath controlled. I do not want them to see me. Not yet. Not until the pieces are in place.
I leave the building and walk into the afternoon sunlight. The city smells of exhaust and coffee, of life continuing without pause. And yet, I notice everything—the man who always exits the elevator too quickly, the security guard who checks ID cards a little too carefully, the cleaning crew who gossip while they work. Every person, every routine is a pattern waiting to be disrupted.
I take out a small notebook from my coat pocket, something inconspicuous, and write. My handwriting is careful, precise, yet it carries the weight of everything I have endured. Each note is a target, a weakness, a step toward the reckoning I have dreamed of in quiet, sleepless nights.
Clara drinks too much when she believes no one is watching.
Evelyn checks her email obsessively, afraid of missing praise.
Marcus Bell reads headlines before breakfast, hungry for scandal.
Sebastian Crowne trusts numbers, not people.
I smile, faintly, almost imperceptibly. The thrill of strategy courses through me like fire. I have no illusions about the cost. I have accepted it.
The first time I see him again, I do not recognize him immediately. Julian Ashford is older now, more disciplined, his hair streaked with gray, his expression carefully neutral. He moves with purpose, as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders alone. He is still beautiful in the sense that danger always is—controlled, precise, untouchable. But I feel something shift inside me. Not love—not exactly—but a recognition of what was taken, what remains.
He notices me too. I know before he does. There is a fraction of a second when his eyes widen, just slightly, before the mask of professionalism returns. That moment is enough. Enough to remind me that he is human, that even those who betrayed me carry the cracks of their own vulnerability.
I do not approach him. Not yet. He would see me too clearly. I walk past, letting him fade into the background as I continue my survey. My patience is a weapon. My silence is a weapon. And I am learning the weight of both.
I wander back to the café, the one tied to my old office, the one where Evelyn used to meet me with coffee and excuses. I order a latte and sit at a corner table, watching the world continue as if I never existed. I take out a sketchpad, but instead of drawing, I map patterns. Foot traffic. Employee habits. Delivery schedules. Lunch breaks. I am making a chessboard out of a city that believes it is ordinary.
The people I once loved, the people who destroyed me, are pieces waiting to be moved. Some will be sacrificed. Some will crumble under the weight of their own arrogance. Some may survive—but they will never be the same again.
I close the pad and watch the street. The sunlight glints off a passing car, and for a moment, I see the glint of my old self—naive, trusting, unprepared. I swallow that memory like a bitter pill. That woman is gone. And yet, she taught me everything I need to know to destroy those who hurt her.
When I leave the café, I notice a figure across the street, lingering, watching. I do not flinch. My first instinct is not fear—it is curiosity. A man, sharp suit, nondescript face. His eyes scan the building I just left. Julian? Perhaps. Or perhaps another player in this city's endless game. Either way, he will be noted. Cataloged. Remembered.
The thrill of recognition courses through me. This is what life feels like when you are no longer a victim: anticipation, control, and the slow, beautiful unfolding of a plan. Every observation, every small movement, every whispered secret becomes ammunition.
I slip down an alley to lose the watcher, heart steady, mind sharp. My hands are steady, my breaths controlled. The city hides me, shields me. And yet, it carries the echo of my name in every corner I once haunted. I am becoming the storm they will never see coming.
By nightfall, I am back in my small apartment, a space curated for invisibility and efficiency. The lights are dim, the blinds drawn. I make tea, something ordinary, something grounding. But even in this domestic calm, the world feels electric. Each sound outside my window, each shadow on the pavement, is a potential thread. I catalog them as I sip, letting the day's observations settle into plans.
I sit at my desk and open the notebook again. My handwriting, once fluid and light, is now jagged in places, sharp with purpose. I make lists, timelines, sequences. Each person who wronged me has a mark beside their name. Some marks are crosses; some are circles. Some are questions. Every mark represents patience, observation, and a step toward reckoning.
Tonight, I dream of the courtroom again, but differently. I am no longer on the defense. I am not waiting for mercy. I am waiting for opportunity. My dreams are maps of their routines, their weaknesses, their unguarded moments. I wake before dawn, my pulse steady, my mind clear.
The game has begun.
And they do not even know I am standing among them, watching, remembering, waiting.