Odette's POV:
Hot water poured over my shoulders, sliding down my skin in a steady rhythm. My own private symphony.
If anyone asked, I'd say I was tone-deaf. But locked away in my bathroom, I was Beyoncé. Or at least a blind Beyoncé.
And honestly? In my head, I sounded good. I had the acoustics, the steam machine fog effect, and the expensive showerhead Dad had installed because "every princess needs a waterfall." Yeah, thanks Dad.
The shampoo foamed in my hair, slick under my nails. I hummed as I massaged my scalp, tilting my face into the spray. I probably looked like a music video—well, if you ignored the fact that I was swaying side to side like an idiot because I had zero rhythm.
Still, the water hit me with that ahh moment hotels bragged about in ads—except this wasn't a hotel. This was home. Our home. The marble tiles, the glass shower door, the heated towel rack that Dad swore was "essential" (it wasn't), and the imported rose soap that cost more than some people's rent. He said it smelled like "class." I said it smelled like "roses." Either way, he spoiled me rotten.
And don't get me started on the floor heating. The kind of luxury people didn't even know existed. If you haven't had your toes warmed by an overpriced system you'll never see because you're blind, then congratulations, you're living responsibly.
Everything was perfect.
Until the scream.
High-pitched. Human. From downstairs.
My blood froze.
I cut off my humming. For a moment, the water was too loud. The world was too loud.
Then I moved, hands skimming along the wall until I found the tap. Smooth, polished chrome. My fingers twisted, and the stream choked off. Silence slammed into me.
"Pa?" My voice cracked.
Nothing.
My heart pounded so loud it filled the bathroom. I reached for the towel hanging on the golden hook. Cotton brushed my knuckles. I yanked it down and wrapped it around me, tying a knot that tugged too tight. My wet hair slapped cold against my back.
I pushed open the glass shower door, condensation sticking under my palm. My toes sank into the fluffy bathmat—ridiculously soft, ridiculously expensive. I hated that I noticed stupid details when I was panicking
"Pa?!" Louder.
The house answered with silence.
I slid my hand along the marble counter, the carved edge of the vanity, the hamper I always kicked when I was careless. Everything was where it should be. That should have calmed me. It didn't.
The air outside the bathroom felt wrong. Thinner. Waiting.
I stepped into my bedroom. The lavender sachets Dad shoved into my drawers scented the air, cloying instead of comforting. My toes brushed the rug—some imported thing he bragged about last Christmas.
But no sounds. No TV hum. No mug clink. No Pa.
My chest tightened.
I walked the path I knew by heart. Seven steps forward. Half a step right. My fingers skimmed the bedpost, the polished wood cold. The hall door.
Cold air licked my ankles from the crack underneath. A window must've been left open. Not normal.
I turned the knob and slipped out.
The hallway was colder. My hand traced the wall, the little felt stickers Pa put up when I was younger so I'd know the corners without thinking. My anchor points. I used to laugh about them. Tonight, they were lifelines.
The staircase opened up. I gripped the banister, tracing the tiny nick underneath that lined with the third baluster. Left foot first, I went down, heel-toe, careful not to trip.
Each step creaked too loud.
My mouth was dry. My throat scraped when I whispered, "Pa?"
Nothing.
At the bottom, the smell hit me.
Metallic. Sharp. Like coins pressed into a sweaty palm.
My stomach twisted hard.
It was faint at first, like something hidden under lemon cleaner, but the further I stepped, the thicker it got. My bare feet curled against the polished wood. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, but my body kept moving.
One step. Then another.
My toes brushed something soft. I flinched so violently I almost lost my balance.
Heart pounding in my ears, I crouched fast, my towel tightening across my chest. My hand pattered across the floor like I was chasing clues in the dark. Fabric. Not rough. Familiar.
A slipper.
Warm.
No—too warm. Recently worn.
My father's slipper.
My chest squeezed so hard I couldn't breathe. I set it down slowly, my fingers trembling as if the slipper might burn me.
I forced myself upright, almost slipping on the polished wood. My shin knocked the edge of the couch and I hissed. The sting barely registered. My palm pressed into the cushion, desperate for an anchor. Heat clung to the fabric. Still warm, like someone had been sitting there seconds ago.
Relief flickered—maybe he was here. Maybe—
And then my leg struck something. Solid. Heavy.
I froze, every muscle locking tight.
That wasn't furniture.
I crouched, slower this time, dread dragging at my bones. My towel brushed the floor as my hands reached out into the void, trembling so hard I almost missed.
Fabric.
A shirt. Smooth. Pressed.
My fingers slid higher. Broad shoulders. Solid frame.
Skin.
Not cold. Not warm. Somewhere in between.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
"Pa?" My voice cracked.
My hands darted over him frantically, mapping what my eyes couldn't. The slope of his chest. His arm, slack and heavy. The hair at his temple I knew better than my own reflection.
"Pa?" Louder now. I shook him lightly, then harder. His body rocked with my force, but no sound came out of him.
"No, no, no…" My voice spiraled into panic.
My palm slipped. Wet.
I pulled back with a gasp, heart in my throat. My hand was slick. I touched again, desperate, refusing to believe.
Thick. Sticky. Warm.
My brain screamed the word before I let it form on my lips.
Blood.
I lifted my hand to my nose. Metallic. Strong. Overpowering.
"Pa!" I screamed this time, my knees crashing into the rug. I didn't care about the sting. My fingers shook violently as they ran over his chest, searching for rise, fall, heartbeat—anything. "No, no, no, no, no!"
My brain spun in dizzy circles, refusing to understand, refusing to accept.
And then—
The air shifted.
Not a draft. Not the AC. Heavier. Alive.
Boots pressed against the floorboards. One step. Slow. Deliberate. Then another.
The smell changed, sliding in with the metallic tang already choking the room. Cold. Wild. A forest dragged inside the house. Leaves, bark, night air—all of it wrapping around me like a predator's shadow.
Every hair on my body stood on end.
I froze, clutching my towel tighter with one hand and thrusting my other hand forward blindly, as if that pathetic gesture could shield me. My breath caught in my throat, shallow and quick, my body begging me to run even though I couldn't see where.
And then a voice broke the silence.
Low. Steady. Icy.
"You're his daughter."