Chapter Eight: I Got You
Celeste had just gotten out of the shower, hair still damp and clinging to her skin, when her phone buzzed on the counter. She wasn't expecting a message — it was nearly midnight, and the city outside her penthouse window was drowned in mist and silence.
She picked up the phone casually, but the moment her eyes landed on the screen, her breath caught.
A single text.
Anonymous sender.
No preview.
The stillness of the apartment suddenly felt too loud — the quiet hum of the fridge, the faint creak in the walls. She opened the message.
Her fingers froze around the phone.
For a long moment, she just stood there. The air seemed to thicken, wrapping around her like a warning. Her heartbeat began to race, not from fear, but from a primal instinct she couldn't shake.
She dialed the number almost without thinking.
Damien picked up after the first ring. His voice was crisp, low — alert.
"Celeste?"
"I think... I just got something," she said shakily. "It's anonymous. No number. No name. Just—" She paused, biting back the dread climbing her throat. "I don't feel safe."
Damien didn't waste a second.
"Where are you now?"
"My apartment. Top floor."
"Don't move. I'll be there in five minutes."
She nodded even though he couldn't see her. "Okay."
But as she turned around to grab her sweater—
She wasn't alone.
She didn't hear the footsteps. She didn't sense a presence. But suddenly, something was wrong. The air shifted. It was as if the temperature dropped five degrees in a heartbeat.
Then—
A sharp blow to her head.
Pain exploded through her skull. Her vision blurred. Her legs buckled. Everything went black before she could even scream.
---
Wind.
That's what she felt when she came to — cold wind brushing against her skin.
And pain.
A dull throbbing in her head, like the echo of a distant drum.
Her eyes blinked open to a spinning world. She groaned, trying to move, but her arms were restrained.
Her body dangled.
A scream tore through her as she realized she was hanging off the terrace of her penthouse. One wrist was tightly bound by a thick, rough rope. The other flailed helplessly in the open air.
She looked up. The rope looped tightly over the steel railing, but the strands were fraying.
And then she saw him.
The masked man.
Standing above her, hands gloved, face hidden beneath a sleek black mask — like a twisted phantom of death. He said nothing. He didn't have to.
In his hand gleamed a knife.
And with chilling calm, he began to slice through the rope, strand by strand.
The fibers whined with every slow, intentional cut.
Celeste screamed. "No! Please! Stop—!"
Her voice cracked in desperation, but he only tilted his head slightly, like he was studying her fear.
She looked down.
Stories below her — nothing but air, steel, and the city lights far beneath.
This was it.
She was going to die.
Her chest rose and fell with panicked sobs. Her fingers bled from clutching the rope too hard. Her mind spiraled — to Damien, to the mystery behind the text, to all the questions she would never get answers to.
And then—
The apartment door slammed open inside.
A voice echoed sharply through the hallway.
"Celeste!"
The masked man snapped his head toward the sound.
Footsteps thundered.
Damien burst onto the terrace like a storm — eyes locked on the masked figure for just a heartbeat.
The masked man took off, leaping over the side railing to a secondary fire escape, disappearing into the night like smoke.
But Celeste's rope had snapped.
She dropped.
But not for long.
Strong arms caught her mid-air.
Damien.
With one arm clamped tightly around the railing, the other caught her just in time, yanking her body against his as they both dangled dangerously over the city. Her scream was muffled by his chest.
Their eyes met.
Wide, breathless, full of things neither of them could say.
"I got you," Damien whispered.
She didn't reply. She couldn't. All she could do was cling to him like her life depended on it — because in that moment, it absolutely did.
---
Inside the apartment, everything felt distant.
The lights. The cold tiles. Even the scent of lavender from her diffuser seemed unreal.
Damien poured her a glass of water, his eyes never leaving hers. "You're not staying here tonight."
"I... I'll be fine."
"You were almost killed."
That shut her up.
She swallowed, eyes darting toward the terrace doors. They had been locked. She was sure. Yet the masked man had still gotten in.
She packed in silence.
---
Damien's penthouse was different.
Larger. Higher. Sleeker.
The kind of place you only see in glossy magazines. The view overlooked the city, floor-to-ceiling glass giving it a godlike distance from everything below.
But despite its beauty, Celeste felt on edge the moment she stepped in.
And then she saw her.
Cierra.
Barefoot in a silk robe, standing at the hallway like she belonged there — like she'd always been there.
Her eyes narrowed as they landed on Celeste.
"Oh. You brought... her."
Celeste didn't miss the pause. The coldness.
"I'm staying the night," Celeste said calmly, even though her insides trembled.
Damien didn't flinch. "She'll take the guest suite."
Cierra's smirk didn't fade. "Of course."
---
Later that night, Celeste stood on the balcony outside the guest room, staring into the night.
The stars seemed too far away.
The city didn't care what had just happened to her. It glittered below, indifferent.
Damien joined her in silence. He stood beside her, not saying a word.
She turned to him slowly, eyes glassy, voice quiet.
"Damien..."
He looked at her.
Her lips parted.
"Will I die?"
Silence.
The wind answered for them.