Ellen's Point of View
"Remind me again why you two are escorting me like bodyguards?" I retort.
It's now evening and we are done for the day.
Normally I would go to the cafe close by and grab an Americano latte alone, but today, Sophia
and Marlon are tagging along.
"Because my girlfriend bailed on me.
"
"My man bailed on me!"
They reply simultaneously. They share a weird look and I raise an eyebrow. I know they're lying
and they are just following to make sure I'm good.
I sigh either ways, not that I can get rid of them that easily.
"Fine. You guys can come along, but make sure to quit bickering while at it.
"
"Aye aye captain.
" They reply simultaneously again.
They talk in synchronization most times and it's weird as hell.
Marlon opens the cafe door for us to enter and before any of us could grasp what was
happening, a guy riding a skateboard slams hard against me. Spilling the contents of his hot
drink over me.
I gasp in shock and I seem to notice Marlon shoving the guy hard to the wall.
"The fuck is wrong with you man? Are you blind? And why the fuck are you skating on a
pavement?"
Sophia is trying so hard to wipe the spillage on my body as she curses under her breath.
"Marlon, let it go.
" I hiss while the guy he cornered, begs for his life.
"I was going home anyways. It's fine.
"
I give a quick goodbye and run down to get a taxi home as I try to clean myself of the mess.
On getting home, I slow my steps when I notice the cars lined neatly along the driveway.
Expensive ones. A familiar sign.
Father is hosting a dinner.
Perfect.
The moment I step inside, the sound of curtsy music and the clinks of glasses all submerge with
their voices. The scent of cigar smoke lingers in the air, layered with cologne and roasted
chicken.
The aroma of the food wafts through and even though I am currently a mess, I think of grabbing
a bite and making a run for it.
Afterall I have not eaten all day and that jerk ruined my evening routine.
I take the back corridor toward the kitchen, my sneakers silent against the marble floor. My plan
is to just grab food and make a dash for my room.
Halfway through the hallway, voices drift in from the sitting room. My father's, loud and sure. The
others, warm and all chatty.
And then another voice joins in.
Although I have a fairly bad sight, my ears are far sharper.
The voice sounded so familiar.
Could it be him?
"I appreciate the invitation, Professor Dumas,
" it says.
"Your department has a strong
foundation. I'm honored to contribute.
"
The sandwich I managed to grab, wobbles in my hands.
I peek from behind the corridor archway, heart hammering.
There he is.
Professor Ardito Martinelli.
He stands beside the fireplace, tall and composed, a glass of red wine held loosely in his hand.
His suit is dark, crisp against the golden light. The others talk animatedly, but he only nods,
listening more than he speaks.
There's something predatory about his stillness. Like a wolf sitting calmly among sheep.
My father is all smiles, gesturing broadly as he praises the professor's publications and "rare
expertise.
" It's unsettling, watching him perform charm he rarely shows at home.
How bizarre.
I'm not supposed to witness any of this. I try to turn abruptly but it ends badly as my sneakers
squeak against the floor and my bag falls off my shoulder.
The sound barely registers over the conversation, but a certain head turns. Instantly.
Our eyes lock.
His gaze is sharp, direct, unblinking.
My breath catches.
For a moment, no one else exists. Just him, and the space that had seemed to thin between us.
I do the only thing I can think of. Run and pretend I didn't see shit.
I pick my bag from the floor in a hurry and make it ten steps before his voice cuts through the
air, low and even.
"Leaving so soon, Miss Dumas?"
I stop abruptly and turn slowly.
Fuck!
He's closer than I thought, standing just at the edge of the hallway light. The glow catches on
the sharp lines of his face, his eyes shadowed but steady.
"You seem easily startled,
" he says.
"Maybe you shouldn't sneak up on people,
" I answer, trying to sound steadier than I feel.
He tilts his head slightly.
"I didn't sneak. You were simply spying on us.
"
I swallow hard.
"I— I live here.
"
A low hum leaves his throat, neither agreement nor amusement. He studies me and raises an
eye on how messy I look.
Something unreadable passes through his expression.
Then, without asking, he holds out his hand.
"You dropped this.
"
My stomach knots. Clara's letter. It must have slipped from my bag as I ran away from the scene
I made. He's holding it now, fingers brushing lightly against the folded corner of it.
I reach for it too quickly, muttering a thank you, but his hand doesn't release it right away.
His gaze flicks to the faint red wax still clinging to the paper inside, and his brow lifts almost
imperceptibly.
For a second, it feels like he knows something.
I swallow hard again.
His gaze is quite unsettling and precise that it causes goosebumps to rise on my skin.
Then he lets go.
"You should be more careful with what you keep close.
"
I step back, uneasy.
"Are you always this cryptic?"
"Only when necessary.
"
His voice is calm, but the air between us seemed to be charged with tension that I am not so
sure of.
"I should return to the others,
" he says finally. But he doesn't move. He lingers, gaze steady on
me.
I cross my arms with a new found boldness.
"Don't let me stop you.
"
He steps closer instead, slow and deliberate, until he's a breath away from the edge of my
comfort.
"Be careful walking these halls at night,
" he says softly.
"Some rooms echo too loudly.
"
The warning curls through the air.
Before I can respond, he turns and walks back toward the sitting room, shoulders and head
straight.
The faint trace of his cologne lingers behind him. And I remain frozen for a long moment, heart
pounding so hard it hurts.
Something about him feels dangerous. Not in the obvious way possible, not the kind you run
from, but the kind you can't stop thinking about after it's gone.
I turn and bolt upstairs.
In my room, the silence hits me like a wall. My hands still shake as I drop the letter and bag onto
my desk.
The wax seal on Clara's letter catches the lamplight. My breath stalls when I notice the edge is
cracked, slightly torn.
It wasn't like that before.
My pulse races.
I look around, half expecting someone to be there, but the room is empty. The air feels different,
though much heavier.
I reach out and touch the letter.
It's still there, but it feels… wrong. Like it's been moved.
Someone touched it.
Someone who shouldn't even know it exists.
Outside, thunder rolls softly, distant and patient.
And as the storm builds outside, I realize that whatever Clara warned me about, is already here,
existing somewhere so close to me.