Page 46 of Shattered By Grace

“Why, What was in it?” she pressed.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. But Cassian Locke wanted it. Badly. I overheard something a while back, him telling someone to ‘find it and burn it.’” His gaze flickered to hers, something veiled his expression. “If it still exists, you need to be careful. If they think you have it…”

A chill ran through her spine.

“They’ll come for me.”

“They already are,” he said softly.

Victoria swallowed hard, trying to keep her breathing steady. This changed things. Her father had left something behind, something the Lockes were willing to destroy at any cost.

And if they thought I had it?The thought is unsettling.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Justin dropped her off a few blocks from her front door, his bike roaring away as he disappeared into the night. He didn’t even wait to see if she made it inside safely, leaving Victoria alone with her spiraling thoughts. That gnawing feeling of being watched followed her, crawling up her spine like a constant shadow. She scanned her surroundings, every flicker of movement, every parked car, making her nerves hum with unease.

Reaching the steps to her building, her eyes fell on a dark red rose resting on the concrete, just like before. No note, no explanation. Her stomach twisted with dread, but she couldn’t dwell on it. Justin had just bombarded her with enough information to make her head spin. Tristan was a game she didn’t know how to play—he was toying with her emotions, leaving her questioning everything. And Tyson? She hadn’t seen him in days, which only added to her growing anxiety.

Victoria stopped dead in her tracks, keys in hand, as she noticed her door was slightly cracked open.

What the fuck.

Her hands trembled as she carefully pushed the door further open, the weight of unease pressing against her ribs like a vice. She had been on edge all night, the whisper of paranoia prickling at her mind.Her breath hitched as she stepped inside, dropping the rose on the floor like a forgotten thought

and scanned the space. Wood splinters littered the floor. A heavy boot print marred the surface, a violent signature of intrusion. Her stomach twisted into knots.

Who did this?She knew who ordered this, violating the fragile sense of security she had desperately clung to.

“Clawdia! Clawdia!” she called out, her voice tinged with panic.

The living room was a disaster. A lamp had been knocked over, its shade tilted at an odd angle. Papers from her desk lay scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. Cabinet doors hung open, their contents spilled haphazardly as if someone had been searching for something specific. Something sharp clung to the room… cologne, sweat, and the ghost of the intruder’s presence.

Had she been reckless? She went back through the last year of being back in the city, thinking of all the risks she had taken. How had they found her?

“Clawdia?” she yelled again, tears rolling down her face.

Her heart pounded as panic took root in her chest. What if they killed her? She pressed a hand to her sternum, willing herself to breathe through the suffocating weight of fear.

Panic clawed at her throat as she spun, taking in the full extent of the damage. But then, the worst realization hit her. The pictures. Every single photograph of her and her father—gone. Not just tossed aside, not destroyed in the chaos. Taken.

Her chest tightened as the truth settled in. The Lockes. They weren’t just looking for money or valuables. They were confirming who she was.

Heart hammering, she reached for her phone, her fingers shaking as she dialed. But who was she calling? The police? Useless. How did she know they weren’t working with the Lockes? Justin? She didn’t trust him enough. Detective Adams? Straight to voicemail.

Where has he been?

Think, Victoria. THINK.

Her mind raced, but every option felt useless, swallowed by the crushing weight of fear.

Then, a sound. A faint creak from the bedroom.

"Clawdia, is that you?" She slowly moves into the bedroom.

Her pulse skyrocketed, and a cold sweat slicked her palms. She hadn't left a window open. She hadn’t even been in there since this morning.Are they still here?The question coiled around her throat, squeezing tight. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but where?

Slowly, she crept toward the door, every step a battle between caution and terror. Her bedroom door was ajar.

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