The front door creaked open, its brass handle worn smooth by years of fingertips. Bella stepped inside, phone pressed to her ear, body tense, breaths shallow—as if the memory of her old life was tangling with the present.
"Bella?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she paused in the hallway as the door clicked shut behind her. Light slanted through dusty glass into the mirrored room. The air smelled of floor polish and faded satin—an echo of her childhood dreams.
Footsteps.
James stood in the center, leaning against the barre. His shirt was unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, revealing pale skin that caught the dying light. His red eyes glowed softly but sharp as a razor.
"Looks familiar," he said, voice smooth with menace.
The mirrors stretched endlessly around her, reflections folding in on themselves like a maze of memory and fear. Bella took a trembling step forward.
James now stood at the far end of the studio, crouched beside an old TV set atop a rolling cart—one of those boxy relics left from another decade. A tape was already whirring inside.
"You're just in time," he said, with a smile that never touched his eyes. "I wanted you to see something."
The screen flickered to life with a faint hiss. Then
A grainy home video.
A woman's voice.
"Bella? Where are you, sweetie? Don't run off like that—"
Bella froze.
It was her mother.
The image on the screen showed a much younger Bella, maybe five or six, giggling as she darted behind a row of barres. Her mother—Renee—moved in and out of frame, clearly holding the camera one-handed while searching.
"Bella, I'm serious," the voice said, loving but concerned. "Come out. You're scaring me."
James watched Bella, not the video. His red eyes glittered in the studio light. "Adorable, isn't it? She really thought you were gone forever. For just a moment. That panic? That was real."
Bella's mouth opened, but nothing came out.
He stepped closer to the TV, voice dropping into something quieter. Crueler.
"She didn't come with you this time. But I thought she deserved to make an appearance. Nostalgia, you know?"
Bella's hands curled into fists. "Where is she?"
James tilted his head. "She's safe. I'm not a liar, Bella. You are."
"I didn't—"
"You told them nothing. Didn't even give them a clue. But you came anyway. That's what I wanted."
The screen continued to play. Renee's voice, calling Bella's name again and again, echoed in the vast mirrored space.
"You don't get to touch her," Bella said, the words sharp, breathless.
James smiled. "I don't have to. You came in her place."
He stepped toward her, the TV still humming behind him. Onscreen, Renee laughed faintly as young Bella jumped out and hugged her. The moment cut hard against the terror of now.
"You don't have to do this," Bella said. "You got what you wanted."
"Almost," James said, almost mournfully. "But I'm a perfectionist. You see—this story doesn't end with you walking away."
The screen went black. Silence fell.
Then James stepped forward again. "It's funny," he continued, circling her like a predator. "How someone like him could fall for someone like you."
Bella's eyes narrowed. "Edward."
"Yes," James said, mock-affectionate. "Your vampire knight. He's so careful. So controlled. Like every second he spends near you is a battle he's losing."
Bella tensed.
James's smile widened. "I could smell it on him. That fear. The desperation. You're the crack in his armor, and it's delicious."
She lunged for the door—fast, but not fast enough.
With terrifying speed, James was on her. He threw her into the mirrored wall — glass cracked and shattered, slicing into her arms and shoulders as she fell.
She screamed, curling instinctively.
James stalked forward, rolling his neck.
"I want to see what he looks like when he finds your broken body."
He kicked her hard — her leg snapped with a sickening crack.
Bella shrieked in agony, crumpling sideways on the glossy wood floor.
James calmly retrieved a handheld camcorder from his jacket, clicked it on with a beep. The red light blinked to life.
"Smile for Edward," he said, voice eerily calm.
Bella whimpered, crawling toward the corner, blood smearing on her palms.
James knelt beside her, breathing in deep through his nose like a sommelier savoring vintage wine.
"You smell like sunlight in a storm," he murmured. "It's intoxicating."
He leaned closer, his tongue slipping out to drag across a cut on her wrist.
Her blood shimmered on his lips.
His eyes fluttered shut. "Perfect."
Then the camera clattered to the floor — and the studio door slammed open.