Raina's POV
Silence is supposed to comfort me on Sundays.
It used to.
Now silence feels like a room full of memories that refuse to behave.
I brew coffee but it tastes like metal.
Trauma does that, it rewires taste first, emotions second.
The steam rises from the mug like a question I don't have an answer for.
I stand at my kitchen island, barefoot , grounded, yet not grounded at all. The marble under my feet is cold, steady. My breath is not.
All night, I kept waking up.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw December again, the flash, the scream in my throat that never found a voice, the gunshots, the shock that cracked reality into two identical halves.
Before.
After.
The necklace is still in my study.
And though it's just a small chain, cheap, middle-class, harmless in reality, my psyche treats it like a loaded weapon.
It's not the metal.
It's the meaning.
I rub my wrist absently, a grounding technique, circular motion, pressure, release. My therapist-self knows this. My patient-self needs it.
I walk into the living room, the yellow lamp still on, the one that always makes this place feel less like four walls and more like a sanctuary.
But today the yellow glow looks like interrogation light.
I grab my phone, habit, muscle memory — and check the missed calls again.
My father tried calling yesterday.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
If he hears my voice, he'll hear everything I'm trying so hard to hide.
I slowly walk to the window, fingers lightly brushing the blinds, no halfway open, just like always.
Half protection.
Half exposure.
The Beverly Hills skyline looks exactly the same as yesterday — perfect, curated, expensive.
But perfection means nothing if your chest feels like shattered glass.
I lean my forehead gently against the cool glass.
"I'm okay," I whisper.
It's a lie, but a necessary one.
I pull myself away from the window and return to the study doorway, the place I've been avoiding all morning.
From here, I can see the laptop.
The private folder is in there.
That is the real trigger.
Not the necklace.
The folder has the truth I've been avoiding the truth I've been terrified to reopen.
I step inside slowly.
The velvet box sits exactly where I left it small, silent, innocent-looking.
I don't touch it.
I don't open it.
But I sit in my chair, study lights soft, familiar — wood and
white around me like a clinical cocoon.
I open the laptop.
The private folder icon stares at me like a scar.
MY FINGER TREMBLES.
Just hover.
Just hover.
I don't click.
I freeze.
I can feel my pulse pounding behind my ear.
My throat tightens as if my body itself is blocking the truth.
I slam the laptop shut.
Not gentle this time.
It clicks like a verdict.
A tear burns the corner of my eye, not a dramatic tear, just one stubborn drop that rolls down before I can stop it.
I swipe it away.
"No more," I whisper.
I walk out of the study.
My legs feel heavy, not tired — overloaded.
Trauma is weight.
It sits on the chest like someone parked a boulder there.
I go back to the living room, sink into the couch, hug a cushion, something to hold, something solid.
I want to call someone.
Betty?
No.
She will notice. Ask. See too much.
My father?
I can't let him hear the break in my voice.
I bury my face in the cushion for a few seconds — just breathing.
Slow in.
Hold.
Long exhale.
It stabilizes me again.
Not much.
But enough.
Hours pass without me realizing they're passing.
The afternoon light turns into evening color, gold turning into muted amber, and I just sit there, staring at the wall like my brain is buffering reality.
Then, finally, the doorbell rings.
My muscles stiffen.
My head turns toward the hall.
No one visits me uninvited.
Not ever.
I slowly stand, step by step, the kind of careful walk someone does when the floor feels like it might crack.
I open the door.
A single item waits on the mat.
A single rose.
Black.
Wrapped in matte paper.
No card.
No note.
No explanation.
Just a symbol.
My breath leaves my body in one sharp exhale like something punched the air out of me without touching me.
My fingers shake as I crouch down, not to touch it, just to LOOK.
Black rose.
Obsession.
Dark love.
Death of innocence.
I know exactly who sent it.
My stomach rolls, not from fear — but from the terrifying realization:
This is not a warning.
This is a beginning.
I reach out, slow, hesitant, and the moment my fingertip touches the stem—
My phone vibrates in my other hand.
1 new message.
Unknown number.
Short.
Precise.
"Open the folder."
Darkness blooms in my chest like ink.