TOM'S POVMarcus Chen's office sat on the fortieth floor of a glass tower downtown, all sharp angles and cold efficiency. Just like the man himself—except for the small bonsai tree on his windowsill, meticulously trimmed, the only organic thing in the entire space.
I had worked with Marcus before—discreet investigations into business partners, background checks on potential investments. He was thorough, expensive, and, most importantly, he knew how to keep his mouth shut.
But I had never hired him for something like this. Something personal.
He sat across from me now in a perfectly pressed suit, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, fingers steepled as he listened. His expression gave nothing away, which was exactly why I had called him at six in the morning. His left thumb tapped against his right knuckle—one, two, three—the only tell that he was processing something significant.
"So you want me to investigate your wife," Marcus said when I finished.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Any particular reason?"
I pulled out my phone and slid it across the desk. "Start with these."
Marcus picked it up, his eyes scanning the screen. I watched closely for any reaction as he scrolled through the photos I had received three nights ago. The tapping stopped.
Aria.
Unconscious. Exposed. In a hotel room she claimed not to remember.
"Where did you get these?" Marcus asked, his tone carefully neutral.
"They were sent to me anonymously. After my wedding."
"Convenient timing." He zoomed in on one of the images, studying it. "And your wife claims she has no memory of this?"
"She claims she's never been with anyone. That she was a virgin when we married."
Marcus's eyebrow lifted slightly. "Was she?"
The question hit harder than it should have.
I thought about our wedding night—about how terrified she'd looked, how I'd walked away and slept on the couch, telling myself I was being merciful.
Then I remembered the photos. The rage that followed.
"That's what I'm paying you to find out," I said.
Marcus set the phone down and pulled out a tablet, his fingers moving swiftly. "Tell me what you know about her background."
"Not much. Her name is Aria Summer. Twenty-three. Lived with her mother, Jasmine Summer, on Maple Street. Her father supposedly died when she was young. No siblings."
"Education?"
"High school diploma. Some community college. Worked part-time at a library."
"Previous relationships?"
"She says there were none."
Marcus paused. "None at all?"
"That's what she claims. Her mother raised her strictly. No men. No dating. Complete purity."
The words tasted bitter now.
"That's… unusual," Marcus said, making a note. "What about the mother?"
"She disappeared. Three days ago—the day after our wedding. Discharged from the hospital where she was supposedly being treated for stage four cancer. House empty. Phone disconnected. Fifteen million dollars of my money is gone."
Marcus looked up sharply. "Fifteen million?"
"I paid for the treatment. That was the deal."
"And now you think the illness was fake."
"I think someone played me. I just need to know if it was Aria, her mother, or both."
Marcus studied the photos again, zooming in on the background. His thumb resumed its rhythm against his knuckle.
"These images," he said slowly. "They're professionally taken. Lighting. Angles. Composition. This wasn't a phone camera."
I leaned forward. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying this looks staged." He turned the phone toward me. "See the mirror? There's a shadow. Someone else was in the room."
My blood ran cold. "Who?"
"That's what I'll find out."
The thought twisted something in my chest. It was easier to be angry at Aria than to consider the alternative—that someone had done something to her, and she didn't even remember.
"How long?" I asked.
"Forty-eight hours." Marcus pulled the phone closer. "I'll also trace the anonymous message, though those are usually dead ends."
"I don't care what it costs," I said, standing. "I want that man found."
"I'll call you when I have something. Until then, don't tell anyone—not your wife, not your friends. If someone's manipulating you, we can't tip them off."
I left his office feeling both relieved and more tense than before. At least now someone was searching for answers.
Soon, I'd have a name, a face, a target.
That night, I tried to work, but numbers blurred on my screen. Conference calls faded into noise.
All I could think about was the photos—Aria's face, her body, unconscious and vulnerable.
Somewhere out there, the man who had done that to her was walking free.
I poured a whiskey and stood by the windows, staring at the city lights. The liquid burned going down, familiar, grounding. I poured another.
Sleep came in fragments.
When I jerked awake, my heart was pounding, sweat soaking my skin. My mouth tasted like copper and champagne, though I'd only had whiskey. The phantom taste lingered, sickly sweet.
Just a dream.
Just a nightmare.
But it had felt too real.
Aria's face, her eyes filled with betrayal. And behind her, the edges of a memory I couldn't quite grasp—music, laughter, a door handle cold under my palm.
Why would my mind do that?
I rubbed my face, trying to convince myself it meant nothing. I'd been obsessing and my guilt was creating ghosts.
Seven years ago. Drunk. Blurry.
Still, the unease lingered like a bruise I kept pressing.
I checked the time.
3:47 a.m.
No messages from Marcus.
The next day passed in a fog. Meetings, calls, emails. Every few hours, I checked my phone.
Nothing.
By evening, my patience was gone.
I was about to call him when my phone finally rang.
Marcus Chen.
I answered immediately. "Tell me you found something."
"Sir," Marcus said, his voice tight, urgent. "I think you need to see this. I'm looking at something, and… you need to come to my office. Now."
Marcus Chen's office smelled of coffee and leather, but underneath it was something else—the faint mineral scent of anxiety, maybe his, maybe mine. The city lights cut through the glass walls in hard reflections. I stood beside his desk, shoulders tight, fingers clenched around the edge of my jacket while he scrolled through files on his laptop, taking his time, letting the silence stretch until my chest began to ache.
Then he stopped and turned the screen toward me.
"Look at this."
I leaned closer, my pulse spiking as the images came into focus. The angles were deliberate, the lighting controlled, the woman in the frame unconscious and exposed in a way that made my stomach twist. I recognized her face even before my mind allowed me to accept it.
The champagne taste flooded my mouth again. Phantom. Impossible.
"These photos were taken at the Belmont Hotel," Marcus said calmly. "Room 604. Seven years ago."
Room 604.
The numbers hit me like a fist. Suddenly I could see it—dark wood door, brass numbers slightly tarnished, my hand reaching for the handle. The memory surfaced and sank again before I could hold it.
"A charity gala was held that night," Marcus continued, clicking to another file. "Full guest list. Every attendee accounted for."
My throat tightened. "And?"
He didn't answer right away. He simply pointed to the screen.
My name stared back at me.
Tom Vager.
"No." The word came out strangled. I shook my head, backing away from the desk. "No, that's—there were dozens of galas that year. Hundreds of rooms in that hotel. This doesn't—"
"I was drunk," I heard myself say. "I don't—I would remember. I would know if I'd—"
"You checked in at 11:47 p.m.," Marcus said, his voice steady, clinical. "The photos have metadata—they were taken at 1:23 a.m."
I stared at the timestamp. 1:23 a.m. What had I been doing at 1:23 a.m. seven years ago? I didn't know. I couldn't remember. The not-knowing felt like drowning.
"She was there," I whispered. "In that room. And I was there too."
The words felt like confessing to something I couldn't name yet, something my mind was still fighting to reject. I stared at the guest list, at my name.
"Room 604. Your name. Seven years ago," Marcus said evenly.
I stepped back, breathing unevenly, my hands curling into fists as the weight of it settled in. My shirt collar felt too tight. The coffee smell was making me nauseous.
Beyond the glass walls, the city moved on as if nothing had changed, as if my world hadn't just fractured.
"What happened in that room?" I asked, my voice raw. "Did I—" I couldn't finish the question. Couldn't give voice to what I was terrified I'd done.
Marcus's expression softened slightly. "I don't know yet. But someone else does."
I looked up sharply.
"If Aria was unconscious," Marcus said carefully, "and you were there… then who took the photos?"
The silence in the room grew heavier. My mind raced through possibilities, each one worse than the last.
"And the man who sent the anonymous message," I continued, my stomach twisting. "The one mocking me. Saying he had Aria first."
I swallowed hard, tasting phantom champagne and bile.
"If that was really Aria in that room," I said slowly, the full horror of it crystallizing, "and I was there too… then who the hell was he?"
Marcus said nothing. His thumb tapped against his knuckle—one, two, three.
Outside, the city glittered, indifferent and cold.
And somewhere in those lights, someone who'd been in that room seven years ago was watching, waiting, holding the answers to questions I was terrified to ask.