The Morning After
Ashley's POV:
Ashley lay in the dark, the faint indentation on her bedsheet a mocking sign of Roman's invisible presence. The bruise on her neck felt like a physical chain. She was learning new ways to break beautifully, yes—learning to endure the silence, to maintain the mask, to survive the constant surveillance.
The alarm finally went off, its cheerful, insistent sound grating against her exhaustion. She got out of bed, her limbs heavy with a weariness that went bone-deep. She showered, letting the hot water sluice away the night's anxiety, but the terror was stuck to her skin.
She caught her reflection in the steamed mirror. The popular girl, the "sunbeam," was gone. In her place was a survivor with dark circles and a look of brittle resolve.
But survival wasn't enough anymore. Survival meant Daniel stayed a hostage. Survival meant her parents remained blissfully ignorant victims. Breaking beautifully was just another form of surrender.
As she dressed in the stiff clothes that felt foreign to her, the decision crystallized: She wouldn't just break; she would shatter the illusion. If the monster was already inside the house, the only way to win was to expose him to the light.
Her mother was in the kitchen, haloed by the soft amber light under the cabinets, the quiet domesticity of her world preserved in the steam rising from a forgotten cup of tea. The sight of it made Ashley's throat ache.
"Mom," she said, standing in the doorway, voice too thin, too even. "We need to talk. And please—don't interrupt."
Her mother blinked up from her book, the smile that started to form fading when she saw Ashley's face. "Ashley, what is it? What's wrong?"
"Everything," she said.
The words poured out—flat, measured, terrifying.About the gun. The surveillance. The fake name. The photo of Daniel that wasn't a photo at all but proof that Roman had access, reach, intent.She spoke like she was reading from a police report, forcing herself not to cry, because if she started, she might never stop.
When she finally went silent, the only sound was the faint buzz of the refrigerator.
Her mother didn't move. She just stared at her daughter as if trying to unsee the truth, and when that failed, she set the book aside and turned off the light.
"We'll tell your father," she said softly. "But not yet. We act normal until we're ready."
______________________________________________________________________________________
Dinner was a pantomime of ordinary life.The smell of lasagna, the clatter of forks, the little jokes that fell into the silence like stones. Ashley's mother refilled water glasses with hands that shook.
Only when the plates were cleared did Ashley slide the printouts across the table.Her father read the pages slowly. The color drained from his face.
"This isn't something for the local police," he said finally, voice low, almost to himself. "This is something else."
Her mother leaned forward. "Who do we trust?"
"Harrison," he said. The name came out like an oath.
He disappeared into the study, door nearly closed, and Ashley heard the muted cadence of his voice through the wall—clipped, cautious, urgent. Words like armed, surveillance, children, threat slipped between muffled syllables.
When he emerged, he forced a breath that sounded like resolve. "He's sending a team before dawn. We hold the line. That's all we have to do."
Ashley nodded, though the phrase hold the line sounded less like a plan and more like a prayer.
______________________________________________________________________________________
The house fell into silence thick enough to hear.Sometime after midnight, Ashley woke. The clock read 12:14.
At first she thought it was the wind. Then she heard it again—the dry scrape of wood on wood. A chair dragging across the kitchen floor.
She held her breath.Another sound followed: a soft thump, as if something had been set down—or someone had leaned too heavily against a wall.
The air in her room felt charged, alive.
She swung her legs off the bed, heart hammering, and crept toward the door. The hallway light leaked in pale blue lines across the carpet. The house seemed to pulse with each step she took.
Halfway down the stairs, she paused. The scent of her mother's tea drifted up, stronger now, steeped too long.The scraping came again—slow, patient, deliberate.
She pressed her hand against the wall, steadying herself. The plaster was cool, damp with the night air.
At the bottom of the stairs, the faint kitchen light flickered once, like a dying heartbeat. The shadows shifted.
She turned the corner—
—and froze.
For a moment, her brain refused to make sense of what she was seeing.Then understanding hit, sharp and cold.
Because right there, in the center of that soft yellow light, she saw something she was never meant to see.
____________________________________________________________________________
Authors Note:
Well, Ashley finally took that terrified leap of faith with the "but that shattered silence." You have to admire her courage—she chose the chaos of the truth over the safety of the lie.
Unfortunately, the universe (and maybe a certain someone with excellent timing) is now reminding her that every brave decision comes with immediate, terrifying, and house-arrest-y consequences. I know you're screaming at the silence right now, but look on the bright side: the stakes are officially off the charts. We're in for a chaotic ride.
See you in Chapter 11!
— Vaanni 🖤