Page 3 of Seeking Shadows

"Crazy."

"Murderer."

"You killed him."

“Freak”

The voices drip down my spine like the water, slipping into the cracks of my mind, curling in the spaces I can’t reach.

I press my fingers into my scalp, trying to drown them out, but they laugh, whisper, tangle into my thoughts.

I exhale.

It’s fine.

I can pretend, just a little longer.

Breathe, Mia. You won’t lose your mind here.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway. But coming back to a place that carved scars into my skin feels like willingly stepping into the fire after finally escaping the flames. Like drowning again after learning how to swim.

No one warns you how much it’ll hurt—not even yourself—because some part of you is stupid enough to believe you’re immune.

I turn off the shower, steam curling around me like ghostly fingers, and wrap myself in a towel before heading straight to the closet. Paulina, in all her misguided enthusiasm, has laid out a selection of dresses. And more dresses. All elegant, all delicate, all so…not me.

But honestly? I don’t have the energy to care.

So I just grab the first blouse and skirt within reach, towel-dry my hair with half-hearted movements, and make my way downstairs, following the delicious scent of food like a starving little detective.

The mansion is quiet—too quiet.

Nico doesn’t live here, though it belongs to him. But my grandfatherdid.

The walls still hold whispers of a past presence, with scattered photos and furniture that feels too settled for an empty house.

It’s strange, like walking through a memory that doesn’t belong to me.

“Hello, Miss Riviera.”

I blink at the unfamiliar man standing a respectful distance away.Weird.My father’s men don’t usually bother with personal space.

“I was sent by your fiancé for your safety inside the house.” His tone is even, professional. “He asked me to give you a new phone, and if you need to come and go, there is a car at your disposal.”

Fiancé?Excuse me?

I take the phone from his outstretched hand, my brain tripping over itself. I still have my old one tucked away. The one IthoughtZane had given me—until Paulina convinced me I had imagined him. And for a second, I almost believed her.

Until I saw him.With my own eyes.

But that can’t be right, can it? Zane is not some rich, revolutionary mobster. Zane listens to Blackpink like a religious experience. Zane despises violence. Zane is by far the best artist I’ve ever seen, quiet but soft on the inside, a free spirit wrapped in ink and gold.

Zane has blond hair and an angelic face.

Not dark hair and a devious expression.

Not the kind of man who belongs in this world of silent threats and bloodstained legacies.

That is not Zane.

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