"Meet my friend, Bran." Sofia's smile was bright, pushing a blushing man forward before vanishing toward the kitchen with a laugh about popcorn.
There I was, frozen on my best friend's sofa. And there he was. Bran. Soft around the edges, his smile hesitant, his eyes warm.
"Hi, Camilla. Sofia told me a lot about you." He shifted his weight, his gaze dropping for a second before meeting mine again. "I like your eyes."
My hand lifted to meet his. I felt it—the dry, warm press of his palm, the gentle squeeze.
But in the dream, my mind screamed.
No..no..no.
My whole body was shaking. Not with the cold fear I knew now, but with a dizzying, terrifying premonition that shot backwards through time. Don't touch him. Don't smile. He'll ruin you.
I shook my head, trying to break the script, but my dream-self just stood there, smiling shyly back.
No!
I shook harder, a full-body tremble, until the pleasant image of Sofia's living room cracked and dissolved.
My eyes flew open.
Darkness. The familiar, aching press of my own mattress. The sour smell of dried tears and rain on my skin.
A dream. It was just the memory of the first day I met Bran.
But it wasn't just a memory. It was a gut punch. It was my subconscious forcing me to relive the origin of the infection, the very first innocent touch, now poisoned with the knowledge of how it all ended.
My heart wasn't fluttering with remembered excitement. It was pounding with a sick, horrified grief. My right hand, the one he'd shaken, curled into a tight fist against my chest. I could still feel the echo of his touch, but now it felt like a brand. The first claim, gentle and unnoticed.
That was the moment it all began. The smile, the popcorn, the compliment about my eyes. The entire beautiful, tragic lie started right there, on Sofia's worn-out sofa.
And I'd just welcomed it in with a blush and a trembling hand.
I looked around, disoriented. I didn't even notice when I'd fallen asleep. I must have cried myself into exhaustion.
The room was a monument to last night's rage—shattered glass, torn fabric, feathers from a gutted pillow. Pale, gray light seeped around the edges of the blinds. Dawn.
Work. The thought was a dull, automatic thud in my skull. I still had a life. A job to go to.
My eyes scanned the wreckage. Where was my alarm clock? I always put it on the nightstand.
Then I saw it—smashed on the floor, a casualty of my war against the past. The digital face was dark.
A spike of panic. I scrambled for my laptop, flipping it open. The screen blazed to life.
6:25 AM.
Still early. I had time.
Then my mind snagged on another missing thing. A heavier, colder dread settled in.
My phone.
My hands patted my pockets, swept over the rumpled sheets. Nothing.
I'd left it. On the mat of Lucian Thorne's car. When he'd pulled me out of the rain. When my world had ended.
A sharp, practical despair cut through the emotional fog. That phone had cost me months of savings.
I needed it. I needed money. Desperately.
If this… this insanity with the contract was real, if Lucian Thorne was truly serious, I would need resources.
A lawyer. A plan. An escape route. All of that required cash, and I had none.
I was trapped in a broken house, with a broken past, owned by a man who broke worlds for fun. And I couldn't even afford to replace my phone.
The sheer, mundane horror of it twisted inside me. I had to get up. I had to go to a job that paid me pennies. I had to smile and function while my entire history rewrote itself into a horror story and my future hung on the whims of a trillionaire.
I pushed myself up, my body aching as if I'd been physically beaten. One foot on the floor, then the other.
I moved through the motions like a ghost. I swore I didn't forget to brush my teeth this time—the sharp mint taste was a small, clean rebellion against the sourness in my mouth and soul. I had to be fast. No car.
The bus was my only way to work.
I walked out of my ruined room, pulling on a simple coffee-colored dress from the back of my closet. It was one of my best, or at least it used to be. The fabric felt soft, forgiving. A small armor against the day.
The bus always arrived at 7:30. Thank goodness I made it.
The air inside was thick with the smell of damp wool, stale perfume, and diesel. I found a seat near the back, next to an old woman wrapped in a faded floral shawl. She smelled strongly of mothballs and medicinal cream. My nose stung, but I stayed put. She was old. I didn't want to disrespect her.
After a few moments of quiet rattling, she turned to me. Her eyes were milky blue, deeply set in a map of wrinkles.
"Wow," she whispered, her voice like rustling paper. "You're so beautiful… you look like an angel."
I bowed my head, managing a faint, worn-out smile. A stranger's kindness felt alien, but it was a warmth I desperately needed.
"You look heartbroken," she continued, her gaze unsettlingly direct. "Did someone break your heart?"
The question, so plain and true, was a key turning in a locked box inside my chest.
Yes. Someone really did that. Bran destroyed my heart.
The pain was a fresh, physical wrench. And it hurts so much because I really did love him.
I didn't speak, just gave a barely perceptible nod.
"Don't worry," she patted my knee with a papery hand. "You'll find a better person. Love will make you look even prettier."
Wow. Is she a fairy godmother?
The thought was a brief, fragile spark in the dark.
The bus hissed to a halt at my stop. I began to gather myself to stand.
The old woman's grip suddenly snapped around my wrist. It was shockingly strong.
Her sweet, crinkled smile vanished, replaced by a grotesque, knowing smirk.
"You look like an actress," she hissed, her voice now a guttural whisper that only I could hear. "With a beautiful face like that… people like you don't deserve love. You're a fool. A whore!"
Her nails dug into my skin, piercing, possessive. My hand burned with pain.
What the hell is wrong with her?
Before I could jerk away, a flustered middle-aged woman rushed down the aisle.
"Sorry! Sorry! She's my grandmother, she's… she gets confused." Her eyes were wide with apology and embarrassment as she pried the old woman's fingers from my arm. "Come on, Nana, this is our stop."
The old woman allowed herself to be led away, but she looked back at me over her shoulder just before the doors closed. That cruel, lucid smirk was still there.
I stood frozen in the aisle, my wrist throbbing where her nails had bitten in.
The bus driver glanced back.
"You getting off or what?!"
I stumbled down the steps onto the sidewalk, the bus drove off.
The encounter replayed in my head—the sweet compliment, the sharp curse.
Angel. Whore.
It felt less like senile rambling and more like a verdict.
A dark echo of Elara's poison, and maybe the world's true opinion of me. A beautiful fool. An object to be either adored or despised.
I looked down at the red, half-moon marks on my wrist. Fresh bruises over old ones I couldn't see.
Pulling my sleeve down to cover them, I turned and walked toward the sleek glass building where I worked. Another cage, but this one, at least, had a predictable lock.
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To be continued...