Page 72 of Vendetta Crown

Ruslan's arm wraps around my waist as we approach the entrance. Hannah meets us at the door, clipboard in hand, but her cheerful greeting fades when she sees my face.

"The set is ready," she says cautiously. "We can get you into makeup whenever you're comfortable."

Ruslan helps me through the door, his steady presence my only anchor as we walk down the hallway toward the sound stage. But the moment I step inside, my knees nearly buckle beneath me.

It's my childhood home.

Every detail is perfect. The worn paint at the edges of the door frame. The slightly crooked gutters running down the side of the house.

Even the slightly ajar front door is exactly the way I found it that night.

A wave of nausea roils my stomach as I stare at that door.

In my mind, I can already see what's waiting on the other side.

The sickening message written in blood.

I swear I can smell the metallic tang of blood in the air, though I know it's impossible. My chest tightens, each breath becoming more difficult than the last.

The sounds around me fade as memories crash over me in waves. I'm nineteen again, frozen in terror, staring at my family's broken bodies.

I feel someone approach, but they sound like they're underwater. Everything's muffled except for the pounding of my heart.

"Mrs. Dragunov? Is everything accurate? We tried to match the photos exactly..."

The set designer's voice barely registers. My eyes are locked on that door.

The door I last pushed open seven years ago.

Ruslan's arm is the only solid thing that’s keeping me from floating away into the past. He anchors me to the present. But something pulls me forward.

A gravity I can't resist.

I slide out from Ruslan's protective hold. My feet move of their own accord, one step at a time toward that slightly open door.

"Aurora..." I hear Ruslan's concerned voice behind me, but I can't stop.

The hardwood floor creaks beneath my feet, just like it did that night. My hand reaches for the doorknob, cold metal against my trembling fingers.

I push the door open.

The living room swims before my eyes, past and present blurring together. For a moment, I see them—my family—on the floor. Dad's outstretched hand. Mom's broken body. My little brother's baseball cap soaked in red.

They're not there on the set. But the words are.

Those awful crimson letters sprawled across the pristine white wall:

Look what you made me do.

My legs turn to water beneath me. The room tilts and spins.

A raw, ragged cry tears from my throat as those crimson words burn into my vision. The floor rushes up to meet me, but Ruslan's arms catch me before I hit the ground. My legs fail completely as sobs wrack my body.

Seven years of running. Seven years of nightmares. Seven years of whispering to myself that Jamie Fields is dead. And now here I am, staring at the words that haunted me across state lines and different identities.

"It's not real," Ruslan whispers, but his voice sounds distant. "Aurora, look at me."

I can't tear my eyes from those letters. They're just paint on a wall. I know this logically.

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