~ Anthony ~
Cassandra wouldn't stop. She kept shouting, accusing, and demanding explanations I didn't have the time or the will to give. Every word scraped against my raw nerves, tightening a knot of something ugly and frantic in my chest.
I started pacing, back and forth in desperation thinking of what to do.
My mind wasn't on her anymore. It was racing ahead, spiraling into the dark. The timing was disastrous. Everything was wrong. This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go. There were plans in place. Arrangements and people I reported to—vicious people who didn't tolerate mistakes or "unforeseen variables."
If this blew up, the cash would stop. This will mean no more payments, no more protection, and no more pretending I was anything other than a man drowning in his own choices.
"Lower your voice," I hissed, rubbing my hands together until they burned. My pulse hammered against my skin. Seline hovered nearby, lighting a cigarette and throwing sharp remarks that Cassandra refused to ignore.
Then, Cassandra laughed.
It was a bitter, broken sound, and it snapped my remaining tether. I felt trapped. Cornered. It was as if the walls of our apartment were closing in and she was the one pushing them. She stepped closer, still yelling, still demanding the truth, still refusing to just shut up and let me think.
My head throbbed with a pulsing heat. I glanced around the room without really seeing it—the couch where we'd watched movies, the table where we'd shared meals, the clutter of a life I was already discarding.
Then my hand closed around the heavy ceramic vase.
I didn't think. I didn't weigh the cost. I just wanted the noise to stop.
The impact was dull and final.
Cassandra crumpled to the floor. Silence followed—thick, suffocating, and absolute. I stared at her body on the living room tiles. She wasn't moving. Her dark hair spread beneath her like spilled ink. Her face was pale, too still, and far too quiet.
My hands began to shake.
"I didn't mean to," I whispered, backing away until I hit the wall. "I didn't mean to."
Seline was already scrambling for the door, fixing her dress as if the carnage on the floor was merely an inconvenience.
"You're crazy," she muttered, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and disgust. "Don't you dare drag me into your mess."
The door slammed behind her, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
I was alone. Alone with Cassandra. Alone with the blood. Alone with a mistake I couldn't undo. I crouched beside her, my chest tight and my breath shallow. I wanted to touch her, to shake her awake and hear her yell again—anything but this silence.
With trembling fingers, I grabbed my phone and dialed the only person I trusted to fix the impossible.
Miranda.
She answered on the second ring. "What now, Anthony?"
"I messed up," I whispered into the receiver. "Cassandra walked in on me with Seline. She started yelling. I panicked and... I hit her. She's not waking up, Miranda."
Silence pressed against my ear, heavy and judgmental. When Miranda finally spoke, her voice was calm. Precise. Deadly.
"You really are useless," she said. "Take her to the address I'm sending you. Do not touch her again. I'll handle it."
My throat tightened. "Okay," I said.
I didn't look at Cassandra as I moved her. I couldn't.
~ Cassie ~
I blinked weakly in the bunker, my vision swimming in and out of focus. Time had lost all meaning. Minutes bled into hours; hours dissolved into days. Hunger gnawed at my insides, pain throbbed in a rhythmic pulse throughout my body, and my tears had dried into stiff, salty trails along my cheeks. My throat felt raw, a desert of scorched skin from screaming into the void.
Voices murmured nearby, cold and indifferent.
"...is she awake?"
"She should be by now. She's tougher than she looks."
"Miranda doesn't like delays."
My stomach twisted into a cold knot. Miranda?
No. That couldn't be right. Miranda was my best friend. Sure, she was condescending and sharp-tongued, but she was my anchor. She was the one who helped me navigate the world. She wasn't dangerous. At least, that was what I had forced myself to believe.
Then I heard it.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
The sound of designer heels striking concrete with a perfect, confident rhythm. The footsteps stopped just outside the heavy steel door.
Metal clinked against metal. The door creaked open slowly, and light poured in. It was blinding, an overwhelming flood of white after what felt like an eternity in the belly of the earth. A silhouette filled the doorway.
Then I heard her voice. Smooth. Cold. Unmistakably familiar.
"Hello, Cassie."
Miranda stepped forward, her lips curved into a chilling, artificial smile. For one fragile, desperate heartbeat, hope bloomed in my chest like a dying flower.
"Miranda…?" I whispered, my voice trembling and broken. "You found me? Please..."
Then another figure moved into view.
Anthony.
My Anthony. Except he wasn't frantic with grief. He wasn't guilty. He wasn't devastated. He was calm, quiet, and looked really submissive.
He stood half a step behind Miranda with his head bowed and hands clasped behind his back, looking for all the world like a soldier awaiting orders.
"Everything is prepared," he said softly. "Exactly as you instructed."
My breath hitched, the air catching in my lungs. My gaze darted between them, the horror finally crystallizing.
"No…" My voice cracked. "Anthony… why are you standing behind her? Why are you—"
He didn't look at me. He didn't move. He didn't even flinch at the sound of my suffering.
Miranda stepped fully into the bunker, each click of her heels echoing like a countdown to my execution. Her eyes gleamed with something dark—a predatory hunger I recognized far too late.
"And here you are," she said softly, reaching out to tilt my head back. "Exactly where you belong."
My pulse hammered in my ears, drowning out everything but the echo of those heels. She hadn't come to save me. She had built this cage. She had written the script. She had planned every single moment of my agony.
The betrayal cut deeper than any blade.
The door slammed shut behind them, and the bunker swallowed the sound whole. In that suffocating darkness, I finally understood the truth. This wasn't a mistake. This wasn't bad luck or an accident of passion.
I had been hunted, targeted, and destroyed on purpose.
My nightmare had a name.
Miranda Lin.