Luna's fingers trembled around her phone. The screen threw a pale rectangle into the dark room, a little lighthouse in the black. Three simple words pulsed there, reluctant and small. "Where are you?"
On paper they were harmless. A husband asking for dinner plans, nothing more. But reading them felt like someone stepping onto her spine. The message was less a text than a stare.
Across from her, the woman sat motionless. Dark eyes, too focused, watched Luna the way you study a mirror that's slightly wrong. She didn't blink.
"He's looking for you," the woman said softly. "He always is. He always knows."
Luna swallowed. Her throat was dry, like she'd held her breath for too long and finally let it out. "You said he ruined your life," she managed. "What did he do?"
A small, tight smile lifted the woman's mouth and gave away nothing. "I was you once," she said. "Young. Hopeful. Stupid enough to think I was special." A laugh escaped—no humor in it. "I told myself I was saving him. Didn't see I was a piece on his chessboard."
"That doesn't answer—" Luna began, voice flat, trying for control.
"Doesn't it?" The woman cocked her head, curious, as if this were a puzzle. "Let me guess how it started. He found you when you were vulnerable. Calm. Gentle. Exactly what you needed. He offered marriage like it was the simplest thing in the world. No pressure. No strings."
Each sentence landed like a pinprick. Luna felt the pulse at her temples.
"He studied you," the woman said. "Your family. Your father's work. Your broken engagement. He knew things about you before you did."
"No." Luna's whisper was barely audible. "He volunteered. At the community center. He read to the kids."
The woman raised one dark brow. "Or he put himself where you would see him. Looked harmless. Looked kind."
A sick knot tightened in Luna's stomach. Her phone buzzed again.
"Luna, answer me."
"What does he want?" she asked, though her voice shook. "If he's so powerful, why choose me?"
"Revenge," the woman answered without hesitation.
"Against who?"
"Anyone who crossed him." Her face went hard. "Ethan Cole doesn't forget. He waits."
Luna shoved her chair back, as if distance could be a shield. "I don't believe you."
"Then confront him."
"He'll lie."
"How do you know?"
The woman fished her phone from her bag and flipped it toward Luna. On the screen a grainy photo: Ethan, coat pulled tight, standing across the street from Luna's building, hands shoved in his pockets, watching the entrance. The timestamp read four months ago — before they met.
"He was watching you," the woman said.
Luna felt hollow. "Who are you?"
For a breath, the woman softened—just a flicker of something like regret. "Sienna Park. Two years ago, Ethan Cole asked me to marry him."
Luna shot upright. The hallway felt suddenly smaller. Sienna Park. Four months. Watching you.
She ran into the corridor and slammed on the brakes.
"There you are."
Ethan stood at the far end, easy stance, hands in his pockets. Too calm. His voice was the same, smooth like a practiced apology.
"I was looking for you," he said.
Automatic, she heard herself reply, "I got lost."
He closed the distance with slow, measured steps. "This wing is private. Which room were you in?"
Her chest tightened.
"Which room?" he repeated, letting no room for a joke.
"2408," she said.
Something flickered across his face—microscopic, like a light switching on.
"I see."
"Who is Sienna Park?" Luna demanded.
Ethan hesitated, then the smile came back—easy, practiced, the one that had once made her breath hitch. Now it cut. "Someone from my past."
"You proposed to her."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I needed a wife."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll get."
Heat flared through Luna—anger louder than fear. "You lied to me."
"I never said I was unemployed," he said, composed. "You assumed."
"You let me assume."
"You needed someone safe," he said. "So I became that."
"So our marriage is fake."
"It's legal," he shot back. "And real."
"Then what am I to you?"
He stepped closer, one palm braced against the wall a fraction from her head, his body warm enough to be dangerous. "My wife," he said, low.
"Or a pawn?" she offered.
For a beat, pain crossed his face—quick, human—then it vanished. "I would never hurt you."
"But you're using me," Luna said.
"Tell me why you married me," she pushed.
Ethan was quiet for a long time. When he finally answered, his voice was soft in a way that made her skin crawl. "Because you were kind. Because you helped strangers without asking for anything. Because when I watched you, you were different. Rare."
Air thinned in Luna's lungs. Relief scraped against doubt.
Before she could respond, the elevator dinged and its doors sighed open.
Marcus Tan stepped out and froze, like the floor had dropped away. He looked at Ethan, then back at Luna, a flicker of recognition and then none.
"Ethan… Cole?" he said.
Ethan's softness snapped. "Marcus Tan. Fancy seeing you."
Marcus went pale. "We've never met."
"Singapore," Ethan said. "Three years ago. Chen Holdings."
Marcus rocked on his heels as if stunned. "You threatened my wife," Ethan continued, voice flat. "That was a mistake."
Dark-suited men materialized around Marcus as if summoned, closing ranks in a heartbeat.
"You have seventy‑two hours," Ethan said. "Withdraw your offer, or I take your company."
Marcus checked his phone. He looked like someone who'd seen a ghost.
The elevator doors slid shut on him.
Silence fell, sharp and thin.
Ethan turned back to Luna and the easy mask slipped into place. "Are you okay?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I don't know who you are."
She ran.
The elevator doors began to close. He said, softly, "I'm sorry."
At the last heartbeat she jabbed the button and forced the doors open. She was breathing hard, words tumbling out. "I have questions."
"I'll answer," he promised.
"Who is Sienna Park?"
"My former fiancée," he admitted.
"And me?"
"I married you because I wanted to." There was a ring of truth in that, and something else she couldn't parse.
Luna hesitated, voice small and frayed. "Come home."
Relief lit his face like dawn.
His phone rang.
Cliffhanger: He answered and went rigid.
"When?" he barked into the line.
He hung up, eyes suddenly huge with a terror that made his voice raw. "Luna. Your apartment building—there's a fire."
Sirens threaded up faintly in the distance as the elevator doors began to close again. Luna realized, cold and precise, that this was no longer whispers and vague threa
ts. Someone had moved their pieces. Whatever Ethan was hiding had gone from secret to war.