I never liked the villa.
Too white. Too clean. Too false.
Like everything in this family.
The marble floors glisten like guilt, and the chandelier above the dining room table is too bright—it makes you squint, as if the truth might be hiding somewhere in the glare. My heels echoed down the hallway the second I stepped in, like the house itself was announcing: Look who finally decided to show up.
My mother appeared at the foot of the stairs in pearls and practiced warmth.
"You look… dramatic," she said, smiling too tightly. "Still obsessed with red lipstick?"
"It suits me," I replied. "Hides the blood."
She laughed. Not because it was funny, but because that's what she does when I talk like this—pretend not to hear it.
Dad didn't say much. He rarely does unless it's about business or disappointment. He barely looked up from his wine, muttering something about how good it was to "have everyone together again."
Everyone.
As if we were whole.
As if my presence didn't make the air vibrate with discomfort.
And then there's her.
Amelia.
My younger sister.
The golden child. The perfectly ironed girl who never breaks rules or glasses or hearts. The kind of woman who says "grace" before dinner and thinks secrets are sins you can bleach clean.
She hugged me like I was a stray dog. Warm but wary.
"Nice of you to come," she said. "Wearing that."
I looked down at my low neckline, the black satin, the slit that ran all the way up my thigh like a dare.
"Don't worry, I dressed for war."
Dinner was silent for a while. The clinking of silverware the only sound until my mother made her move.
"So," she started, too brightly, "how's your… work?"
She didn't know what I did.
That was the thing about my family. They only cared about appearances. Not what you did. Only how well you faked it.
"I manage quite well," I said, slicing into my steak with more force than necessary.
"I heard you were at the Montclaire Gala," Amelia added, sipping her wine like she hadn't stalked my social media to find out.
"I was invited."
"Of course. And the man you left with?"
I turned to her slowly. "Jealous?"
She flushed. "I just meant—it was late. You didn't even say goodbye. You never do."
"Goodbyes are for people who plan on staying gone," I replied. "I always come back."
"To what?" Amelia said, too sweetly. "You barely call. You miss birthdays. You only show up when it benefits you."
"That's rich," I laughed. "Coming from the girl who made a career out of being the family's favorite."
She stiffened.
Dad looked up, annoyed. "Girls, not tonight."
"Oh, why not?" I said, waving my wine. "Isn't this what family dinners are for? Passive-aggressive jabs in between overcooked lamb and red wine that tastes like guilt?"
My mother stood. "That's enough."
But I wasn't done.
"You don't get to guilt-trip me for leaving when you never once asked why I went."
Silence.
They never asked.
Because they knew. Or they didn't want to know. Or both.
Dinner ended in silence. As always.
---
Midnight
The moon slanted through the hallway like a blade. I wandered barefoot past portraits of smiling liars and hollow memories. The air was too quiet, like the house was waiting for something.
And then I heard it.
A whisper.
Soft.
Deliberate.
Coming from Amelia's room.
I paused at her door.
The light was off. But her voice slid through the crack like smoke.
"No, she doesn't know. I've handled it… She'll break soon. He said the name worked… Yes. I saw it on her skin too…"
I froze.
My breath caught.
Who was she talking to?
Who was he?
I leaned closer. But the floor creaked and the whisper cut off like a thread snipped clean.
The door opened a second later.
We stared at each other.
Her face pale. Her phone clutched tight. Her smile… wrong.
"You're up late," she said.
"So are you."
"Couldn't sleep."
"Talking to someone?"
"No one."
Liar.
I narrowed my eyes. "What do you know, Amelia?"
She blinked. Too slow.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean about him."
She gave a little laugh. "You're being paranoid again."
Again.
As if this was a pattern. As if I was just spiraling. As if she wasn't hiding something.
But I saw the flicker in her gaze. The way her hand trembled just slightly at her side. The lipstick mark on her wrist—my brand. My shade.
Too many signs. And not enough answers.
"Goodnight, sister," she said. "Try not to dream too hard."
She shut the door in my face.
And I stood there for a long time, heart pounding, realizing that maybe… just maybe…
I wasn't being hunted by a stranger.
Maybe the monster had been inside this house all along.
Certainly. Here's a 300-word cliffhanger continuation of the Parents' Villa scene, keeping the tension sharp and unresolved, ending with a powerful question and eerie atmosphere:
---
The hallway was colder now.
Or maybe it was just me.
I stood outside Amelia's door long after it closed, still staring at the wood like it might confess something if I looked hard enough. Her whisper haunted me.
"He said the name worked…"
What name?
My fingers drifted to my collarbone where, under my silk blouse, his fake name still burned on my skin like a brand. Elijah. A name I never said out loud. A name I never gave to anyone.
And yet Amelia knew.
That wasn't a coincidence.
I turned away and made it down the stairs, heart thudding like a warning drum. I needed air. Space. Distance from the perfume of this house and its secrets.
But as I opened the front door, a glimmer caught my eye.
On the tiled floor, just beneath the chandelier, lay something small. Deliberate.
A paper crane.
Folded perfectly. Crimson paper. My lipstick shade.
I bent down, fingers trembling as I picked it up. On one wing, scrawled in tiny handwriting I knew too well:
"You always come back."
I dropped it like it burned.
My head snapped up, scanning the night, the street, the garden.
Empty.
But I felt him.
Somewhere near.
Watching.
Always watching.
I backed into the doorway, pulse racing, trying to slow my breath.
Amelia's door creaked open upstairs.
Too slow to be innocent.
Too timed to be coincidence.
And her voice floated down, almost sweet.
"You should've stayed gone."
---
---