Well, Isabella just had to straight-up detonate Elara's peace of mind, didn't she? Like, boom—there goes the neighborhood. One minute Elara's cruising along, next minute her brain's got those words—"unique abilities," "rare gift," "dangerous," "protected"—on an endless, glitchy loop. Like, cool, thanks, just what she needed: an anxiety remix blasting in her skull at full volume.
And, come on, trust? Not even on sale in this place. She's got both feet on the ground but it's like the floor's about to swallow her whole if she moves wrong. Secrets everywhere—like she wandered into some "Survivor: Paranoia Edition" nightmare, except nobody even bothered to hand her a torch. Everybody's playing some shadow game, and she's just supposed to nod and smile? Yeah, right.
But let's be real: Elara's not about to curl up and take it. She's stubborn as a mule with a grudge. Like, "Okay, universe, you wanna mess with me? Bring it." She's so over the fake grins and polite lies. Answers or nothing. Even if it means unearthing memories better left dead and buried.
Oh, and Henry. Seriously, what is up with this guy? He's everywhere, always lurking around with his "just checking in!" act, popping up like those dumb pop-up ads that somehow bypass every blocker. The whole "I'm your friend, trust me" schtick? Yeah, not buying it. She's got her eye on him now, catching those moments where his "Golden Retriever" act slips and something way chillier peeks out. The more she notices, the weirder he gets. "Nice guy"? Sure, and I'm the Queen of England.
Start digging, and Henry's story leaks dark corners. Whispers, weird gaps in his timeline, and honestly, the dude's probably hiding a whole haunted house, not just a skeleton or two. Every time his act cracks, it's like, whoa, there's the real Henry.
And because fate's got a twisted sense of humor, Damien strolls back in. Of course. Henry and Damien—always sneaking around, whispering behind doors, like they're auditioning for Discount James Bond. If Henry's got secrets, you know Damien's writing the next episode.
And then there's her dad—his name keeps showing up in all the wrong places, tangled in Damien's drama. Really? What cosmic lottery did her family lose to get this mess? Her thoughts are chasing each other in circles, never catching up, always just missing the truth.
Eventually, Elara's had enough. Lunch break hits, and she bolts for Damien's office. "Just grabbing my purse," she tells herself. Yeah, sure. She's got one goal: tear the place apart, find something—anything—before her brain finally short-circuits.
Honestly? Cake walk. The office is dead quiet, practically daring her to snoop. She goes straight for the file cabinet—duh, where else would you keep the good stuff? Locked, obviously, because Damien's predictable like that.
So she wrecks the place anyway, half-expecting to find a "Villain To-Do List" scribbled on a napkin or something. Nope. Damien's basically a robot—no mess, no notes, not even a rogue paperclip.
She's about to bounce—feeling like a total clown—when something shiny winks at her from under the desk. Tiny black drive, camo'd under a pile of dust. She snatches it, squints—oh, come on. "For Elara." Yeah, that's not creepy at all.
Her stomach does a full-on elevator drop. Hands go cold and sticky. Should she look? What if it's, like, digital poison or some brain-melting video? Whatever. She shoves it in her pocket, the thing's ice-cold, like it's got attitude.
Back at her desk, the drive's burning a hole in her hand. She already knows—whatever's on here, life's about to get flipped upside down. No going back now.
Man, that drive was burning a hole in her pocket all freaking day. Like, every time she shifted, it was practically calling out to her—"Hey, you gonna look or what?" Secrets? Please. That thing was a nest of hornets, all buzzing under her skin and making her twitchy as hell. She kept darting glances over her shoulder, like the universe was gonna send some weirdo to jump out from behind the office ficus. Paranoid? Maybe a little. But honestly, who wouldn't be in that dump after dark?
By the time streetlights flickered on and the city started doing its nighttime sparkle thing, she was completely done. Subtlety? Out the window. She bolted, clutching that drive like it was a live grenade set to go off next to the water cooler. Zero chance she was opening that mess with her boss lurking around like a budget Dracula.
Her apartment was, let's be real, barely bigger than a closet. Piles of laundry, empty takeout, and a lamp on life support. But hey, it was hers, and at least she could breathe in there. She shoved the drive into her laptop, palms slick, heart going full drum solo. Hung over the mouse like she was about to launch nukes.
First file? Instant regret. Like, full-body smack. Her screen just erupted—random video chaos, sound cranked, and—oh, fantastic—there's Henry, cheesing like he won the lottery. Chilling with Isabella, both of them with those "we're up to some shady crap" faces. Whispering, plotting, acting like they're in some bargain-bin spy flick. Except, joke's on her—this wasn't Netflix, it was her trainwreck reality.
She just... locked up. Blood turned to ice chips. Couldn't look away, though. Henry and Isabella, thick as thieves, knee-deep in who-knows-what. The vibe? Straight-up rotten.
And because the universe loves a pile-on, a new video auto-rolled. This one? Nightmare fuel. Super grainy, all shadows, but the voices—crystal clear. Her dad. Damien, completely losing his mind, shouting, "I want her to pay!" Like, dude was unhinged. Rage just dripping off every syllable.
Elara sat there, not even breathing. Her dad, Damien, all this fury and payback—what the hell was she supposed to have done? Nothing tracked. But that terror? Oh, that was the only thing that made sense.
God, her brain was a total dumpster fire. Thoughts spinning out like someone'd jammed a fork in the wiring—just static and panic, nothing useful rising to the top. She barely kept herself from drowning in it, nose barely above water, while anxiety nipped at her ankles like some rabid dog.
And then—shit—something scraped the outside of her apartment door. Not loud, but sharp enough to cut through the silence like it was collecting debts.
Elara's heart went full Olympic gymnast, practically somersaulting out of her chest. She froze, eyes bugging, holding her breath like that'd make her invisible or something. (Spoiler: it didn't.)
There it was again. A soft, scratchy sound, way too careful—like whoever was out there was trying not to wake the dead. Fumbling with the lock? Oh, hell no.
Her blood went icy. Someone was out there. Not just random city weird, but personal—someone who knew her, someone who wanted in. Fantastic.
She crept to the door, toes sinking into the carpet, weighing each step like it mattered. Stuck her eye to the peephole. Useless—hall light was garbage—but she could make out a shape. Hunched, waiting, just standing there. Watching. Ugh.
And that's when her stomach dropped—this wasn't some drunk lost on the wrong floor.
Her phone exploded with sound, making her jump hard enough she nearly threw it across the room. Fumbled it, hands shaking like she'd mainlined caffeine.
She managed a pathetic little "Hello?"—came out more mouse than human.
What she got back? Pure nightmare juice. Voice all distorted and cold, like it was echoing up from some haunted basement: "You know too much…"
Click. Silence.
She stood there, frozen, blood doing its best impression of ice water. Everything got floaty and weird, like she was watching her own life through the world's worst VR headset. Nope. Not sticking around to see how this horror movie ends.
She snatched her purse, grabbed her phone, eyes flicking to that beat-up photo by the bed—her and Mira, arms around each other, grinning like they'd just gotten away with murder. Mira. Only person she trusted. Out in the sticks, away from city drama. Magic, secrets, no Isabella or Henry to make things messier.
No time for packing. Just keys, wallet, that USB (oh god, the USB), all crammed in her bag. Heart pounding so loud she was shocked the creeper at her door didn't hear it. The noise outside ramped up—scraping, groaning, a creak that said the lock was living on borrowed time.
Zero thinking. Just action. Window up, cold night air smacking her in the face. Third floor. Not exactly a dream, but what's a sprained ankle compared to whatever fresh hell waited inside? She scrambled onto the fire escape, metal digging into her hands, breath coming out in wild, chopped-up gasps. Lagos below looked like a fever dream—neon, shadows, no safe place.
No way was she glancing back. Whoever wanted in wasn't showing up to share banana bread.
She hit the pavement running, practically invisible in the chaos. Suddenly every siren, every random yell, felt like it was hunting her down. She flagged a cab, mouth barely working as she spat out Mira's address—way out where the city faded and things slowed down. Old secrets, old friends. Hopefully safety. Or, at least, a shot at surviving till sunrise.
That drive? Straight up fever dream territory. Neon lights doing their best impression of a watercolor disaster, just smearing across the glass while Elara's curled in the back seat, strangling her purse like it's gonna morph into a snake. Her brain was basically a busted-up pinball machine—just that grainy video, zipping around, over and over again. Her dad. Damien. Those words, echoing like a curse: "I want her to pay!" Who the hell was "her," anyway? Isabella? Or—hell—was it Elara herself? Felt like getting a bucket of ice dumped straight into her ribcage. And her dad—sweet, scatterbrained, bee nerd dad—how'd he get sucked into this? Sheesh. Bees don't collect sketchy debts last time she checked.
Taxi finally wheezed to a stop outside Mira's place, which—look, if a gingerbread house had a quarter-life crisis and started hoarding, that'd be it. The air, though? Heavy. Like you could almost chew it. Wet dirt, wild honeysuckle, and something older hiding underneath it all. The apiary sort of lurked in the shadows, half comforting, half creepy nostalgia.
Elara's hands shook so bad she nearly dropped her phone dialing Mira. Voice came out all scratchy, like she'd gargled sand. "Mira, I… I need help. I'm here."
Third ring, Mira picked up, and boom—she's at the door. Half asleep, hair doing its best Medusa, robe swallowing her whole, beads clacking like windchimes in a hurricane. She smelled like a whole apothecary and a campfire, somehow. Mira didn't even ask, just crushed Elara in a hug, squeezing the panic right outta her.
"Elara! Jesus, you look like you saw a ghost." Mira's hands everywhere—shoulders, arms, like she was inspecting for damage. Oddly nice, actually.
Elara jammed the USB drive into Mira's palm before she could overthink it. "It's way worse than I thought, Mira. My dad, Damien, Isabella, Henry—the whole crew's tangled up. And someone's watching me now. I found this—said 'For Elara' on it." Everything just sort of poured out of her—spying, threats, that gross video. Mouth on autopilot.
Mira went stone-faced, except her eyes, which got huge and sad and… did she already know? Felt like she knew. She rolled the drive between her fingers, thumb tracing the engraving. "Yeah, I always figured there was something off about your family. Not, like, bad-off. Just… old. Powerful."
She dragged Elara inside, past a jungle of plants, shelves jammed with grimy books, jars full of weird stuff that probably had names like "witch's root" or "moon salt." The cottage smelled like lavender, beeswax, and something sharp Elara couldn't place. Mira made tea, obviously. Elara just kept talking, fear draining out of her, leaving her kinda hollow.
"This 'Project Elara' thing?" Mira's voice was so low it nearly disappeared. "It's not just you. It's your blood. Your mom's family. Healers, earth-keepers. My grandma used to tell stories."
Elara blinked. "My mom? She never said anything."
Mira gave her the look—like, Oh, honey, you sweet, clueless thing. "Some secrets, you bury deep. Especially when people with power come sniffing around. But this…" she flipped the USB, "this is a warning. And maybe a clue."
Mira plugged the drive into her ancient, sticker-bombed laptop, which coughed and wheezed like it was allergic to technology. Mira looked like a boho hacker, beads jangling, rain-scent clinging to her as she typed. Videos started up, voices filling the cottage—Henry hissing, Isabella plotting cold as ice.
Then—bam—there's her dad and Damien. Damien's voice oozes out, pure poison: "I want her to pay!" Mira actually gasped, hand flying to her mouth. For a split second, even she looked scared.
"That scar," Mira muttered, jerking her chin at Damien's mug on the monitor—could've been filmed through a potato, but that sliced-up line near his collarbone? No missing it. May as well have neon arrows pointing: Sterling curse, right here. "That's it. Nasty stuff. Like a bad family recipe nobody wants but everyone gets. The whole deal: power cravings, zero clue about love, and if they don't, you know, top off the tank the right way… they start coming apart. Slow rot. Gross as hell."
Elara felt this icy little worm wriggle down her spine. "Feed? What, like, eat-a-sandwich feed or…?"
Mira finally looked up, face all green around the gills. "Worse. Way worse. They gotta suck the life outta someone with actual elemental magic. Not a polite taste—full vacuum cleaner mode, or the curse eats them instead. And who's got the jackpot juice? Yeah, that'd be you, El."
Elara jerked back like she'd touched a live socket. Her insides tried to evacuate. "Wait—so Damien's planning to do that to me? Just… drain me?" The words tasted like bad medicine.
"He doesn't gotta kill you," Mira whispered, voice all shaky and raw. "But he'd lock you down, keep your magic on a leash, use it so he doesn't turn to mush. Old school. Real ugly. And your family? Always been caught up in the mess, no matter what you wanted."
"My dad…" Elara's voice just sort of fizzed out as it all finally fell into place. Ugly, ugly picture. "He knew. Of course he did. The 'debt'—it was never money, was it? It was me."
Mira squeezed her hand, silent, like anything she could say would just make it worse. "He was trying to buy you time, El. That's it. But Damien? He's a shark. Smells blood, never lets go."
The truth landed like a sucker punch. All those stories about safety, all the bedtime lies—her dad wasn't keeping her safe, just delaying the train wreck. And Damien? Not just some business ghoul. A literal monster, feeding on people like her for breakfast.
"So Isabella and Henry," Elara said, voice flat as day-old soda, "they're just playing along? Trading me for power or whatever?"
"Bingo," Mira snorted, mouth twisted. "Total leeches. Don't count yourself out, though. You got more going on than any of them even realize."
Mira yanked open another encrypted file, fingers moving like she was hopped up on Red Bull. Not just video—old books, scanned pages crawling with scribbles Elara half-recognized from forbidden storybooks. Mira started reading, her tone getting all heavy and doom-and-gloom. Something about two bloodlines, locked in this ancient, cursed handshake—one line rotting away, one with the power to heal. The future? Either save each other or burn the whole thing down. Depends on the choices.
"Sterling curse can break," Mira read, voice barely a whisper, "but only if someone actually chooses real, gnarly, change-your-soul love. Not the fake stuff. If they keep taking? Just darkness. That's it."
Elara stared at the screen, head spinning like she'd stood up too fast. Sacrifice. Love. Her. Damien. It just felt too big, like the universe had dumped a truck on her back.
"This is so, so messed up," she choked, vision swimming. "I can't—I can't do this."
Mira closed the laptop, gentle but stubborn. "You're already in, babe. But now you know. And knowing? That's power. You're not just a pawn here, Elara—you're the whole damn key."
She hauled herself up—honestly, kinda creaky, but come on, after everything? No one's judging—and made a beeline for this battered old chest, stuffed with dried-out herbs and weird little talismans that probably had more stories than she did. Mira didn't screw around: "Time to toughen up. Lock down whatever it is that makes you tick. And then? We actually gotta think for once. This isn't just 'let's sneak out of Sterling Manor'—it's more like fate's rewriting the whole damn story."
Elara's stomach was a total disaster—half freaked out, half…weirdly amped? Her life used to be all sweet pastries and sneaking books in dusty corners, and now, look at her: starring in a high-drama fantasy, curses and secrets flying around like confetti. Forget being just another servant. Apparently, now she's the main event: chosen, powered up, and, oh, by the way, a walking bullseye. Freedom? Not just slinking off into the night—it's straight-up fighting for her soul. And, let's be real, maybe dragging Damien out of the fire too, if he's not a total idiot.
She met Mira's stare, chin up, stubborn as anything. "Alright. What's next?"
Mira flashed this wild, dangerous grin, like she was about to punch fate itself in the teeth. "Step one: Cleanse. Step two: Prep. Step three? Screw running—we throw down, their style."
That hit Elara like getting dunked in an ice bath—jolted her awake. Fear was still there, gnawing away, but now it was buried under a layer of pure, unmovable grit. She wasn't about to let anyone chew her up and spit her out. She'd figure out whatever the hell her gift was, and use it for herself. The real battle was just getting started, and the world? Total chaos, monsters, magic, choices she never thought she'd face. She wasn't some scared kid running anymore. She was done hiding. Let whatever's coming come—she's ready.