The rain did not stop overnight.
It softened, thinned into something mist-like just before dawn, as if the city itself were holding its breath. By morning, the streets gleamed under a washed-out sky, everything edged in silver and gray. The storm hadn't passed—it had only changed shape.
Lara Payet woke with the sensation that something had already moved without her consent.
Not a dream. Not fear exactly.
A displacement.
She lay still, listening. The apartment was quiet, but the quiet felt… alert. As though the walls themselves were waiting for a cue.
She sat up slowly and checked her phone.
No new messages.
No missed calls.
The email from the night before remained unopened, unread again, as if ignoring it could turn it into nothing more than a glitch in the system. She told herself that was all it was. Someone mistyped an address. A coincidence. The world was full of them.
Still, she didn't make coffee right away.
Instead, she opened the curtains and looked out at the street below. People moved with purpose—umbrellas tucked under arms, jackets zipped against the lingering damp. Life continuing, indifferent to whatever private storms were forming behind closed doors.
She pressed her palm against the glass.
"I'm here," she murmured. To herself.
To the room.
To the part of her that needed reminding.
The routine mattered today.
She dressed with care, choosing neutral colors, familiar silhouettes. Nothing that drew attention. Nothing that felt like armor either. There was a balance she was learning to strike—visible without being exposed.
On her way out, she hesitated, then slid her passport from the drawer and tucked it into her bag.
Not because she planned to use it.
Because choice felt safer when it was tangible.
Thalia's was louder than usual for a mid-morning. Deliveries arriving late, a supplier on the phone arguing about inventory, the low, constant percussion of preparation echoing through the space. It should have been chaotic.
Instead, it grounded her.
Jaden stood near the open kitchen, jacket off, sleeves rolled, voice steady as he spoke to a frustrated vendor. He didn't raise it. Didn't rush. He listened, asked the right questions, and resolved the issue with minimal disruption.
When he noticed Lara, his expression softened—but only briefly. He didn't draw attention to her. Didn't interrupt what he was doing.
That, too, mattered.
She took a seat near the bar, ordering nothing at first, just watching the rhythm of the place. There was something soothing about being in a room where movement had purpose, where people knew their roles and trusted one another to carry them out.
"You're quiet today," Jaden said later, setting a glass of water in front of her.
"Am I ever loud?" she asked lightly.
He smiled, but his eyes stayed observant. "You're usually… settled."
The word lingered between them.
"I didn't sleep much," she said, choosing honesty without detail.
He nodded once. Accepted it.
"Stay as long as you want," he said. "No expectations."
That was the thing with Jaden—he offered space the way others offered reassurance. Without strings. Without subtext.
She stayed through lunch, helped organize receipts, made herself useful in ways that didn't feel like hiding. When she left, it was with a sense of normalcy she hadn't realized she was craving.
Outside, the clouds thickened again.
The weather was undecided.
The message came in the afternoon.
This time, it wasn't an email.
It was a notification from an unfamiliar number.
Unknown: I didn't think you'd ignore me.
Lara stopped walking.
The city continued around her—footsteps, engines, voices—but everything inside her went very still. Her grip tightened around her phone, not shaking, just firm.
She didn't respond.
She took three slow breaths and kept moving.
Another message arrived seconds later.
I just want to talk.
Her stomach twisted—not because the words were threatening, but because they were familiar. Because they had always come dressed as reason. As entitlement masquerading as concern.
She turned down a side street, then another, altering her route without conscious thought. Her body remembered patterns her mind wanted to deny.
When she reached her building, she checked the street behind her before unlocking the door.
No one there.
Still, she didn't relax.
Inside, she locked the door, slid the chain into place, then stood with her back against it longer than necessary. Her heart beat steadily—not panicked, not calm.
Prepared.
She opened the message thread again.
No name.
No identifying details.
Just the quiet insistence of someone who believed access was a given.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
Then she deleted the conversation.
Not blocked.
Deleted.
It was a small distinction, but an important one. Blocking felt reactive. Deleting felt final.
She powered the phone down and placed it face down on the table.
For the rest of the afternoon, she stayed busy. Laundry. Dishes. Work emails. Anything that kept her hands moving and her mind anchored in the present.
Still, the feeling followed her.
Like a shadow just out of view.
That evening, the rain returned with force.
Thunder cracked overhead, close enough to rattle the windows. The city lights flickered once, then steadied. Lara lit a lamp and curled up on the couch, a book open in her lap but unread.
Her thoughts kept circling the same quiet question:
How much does he know?
She hadn't told anyone her exact address—not online, not casually. She had been careful. Always careful.
But care wasn't the same as control.
A knock sounded at the door.
Once.
Firm. Measured.
Her breath caught.
She didn't move.
The knock came again.
"Lara."
Her name.
Spoken calmly. Not raised. Not urgent.
Her chest tightened painfully.
She stayed silent.
Minutes passed. The knock did not return.
She waited until the sound of footsteps faded, until the hallway returned to stillness. Only then did she allow herself to move—quietly, carefully—toward the door.
She checked the peephole.
Empty.
But something had been slipped beneath the door.
A folded piece of paper.
Her hands trembled now—not violently, but unmistakably—as she picked it up. The paper was dry despite the rain outside. Neatly folded. Intentional.
She opened it.
No threats.
No apologies.
Just a single sentence, written in familiar handwriting.
You don't get to disappear.
The room felt smaller.
The air heavier.
She sank onto the floor, back against the door, paper clutched in her hand like evidence of a crime no one else could see.
Her phone remained face down on the table.
For the first time since arriving in Australia, she considered calling the police.
Not because she felt helpless.
Because she felt hunted.
Across the city, Jaden stood alone in his office long after closing.
He had known something was off the moment Lara left that afternoon. Not because she said anything—but because she hadn't. Because the quiet she carried had sharpened, turned inward.
He didn't know why.
And that mattered.
He refused to fill in the blanks with assumptions. Refused to project his own instincts onto a story that wasn't his.
Still, he found himself checking the security feeds, scanning the street outside Thalia's long after the last staff member had gone home.
Habit, he told himself.
Nothing more.
When his phone buzzed, he glanced down.
A message from a number he didn't recognize.
Is Lara Payet with you?
His jaw tightened.
He didn't respond.
Instead, he saved the number.
And waited.
Back in her apartment, Lara finally turned her phone back on.
Missed calls bloomed across the screen.
Unknown. Unknown. Unknown.
She didn't listen to the voicemails.
She didn't need to.
She folded the paper again—carefully, deliberately—and placed it inside her passport.
Not as a reminder.
As a marker.
This wasn't the beginning.
It was the proof that the past had found her trail.
But Lara Payet was no longer the woman who froze when doors closed too quietly or voices dropped too low.
She stood, squared her shoulders, and opened her laptop.
Tomorrow, she would act.
Not react.
The storm had arrived.
And this time, she intended to meet it awake.