I didn't sleep.
How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those golden eyes staring back at me. Every sound in my apartment building—a door closing, footsteps in the hallway, the elevator creaking—made me jump out of my skin.
By six AM, I'd consumed enough coffee to kill a horse and made a decision. Whatever Edward Cullen was, whatever I'd witnessed, I wasn't going to hide from it. That's not who I am. I'm a journalist. I dig up the truth, no matter how ugly or dangerous it gets.
And if I couldn't prove what happened with video evidence, I'd have to find another way.
The Seattle Police Department's downtown precinct smelled like burnt coffee and disappointment. I'd been here dozens of times over the past three years, chasing stories or filing freedom of information requests. Usually, the desk sergeant would wave me through with a tired smile. Today was different.
"I need to file a report about a murder," I told Officer Martinez, trying to keep my voice steady.
Martinez looked up from his paperwork with the expression of a man who'd heard everything twice. "When and where?"
"Last night. Around two AM. Pier 47, down by the industrial district."
"Victim's name?"
"Marcus Webb." I pulled out my phone and showed him Marcus's photo from my notes app. "He's been missing for six weeks. I witnessed his murder."
That got his attention. Martinez straightened up, suddenly looking more alert. "You witnessed a homicide?"
"Yes. I saw Edward Cullen—the CEO of Cullen Corporation—kill Marcus Webb. With his bare hands."
The change in Martinez's expression was instant. The professional interest disappeared, replaced by something that looked almost like... fear?
"Ma'am, I think you might be confused—"
"I'm not confused." I leaned forward, lowering my voice. "I know what I saw. Edward Cullen murdered a man last night, and I have a right to file a report."
Martinez glanced around the station nervously, then picked up his desk phone. He dialed a three-digit extension and turned away from me, speaking in low tones I couldn't quite catch. The conversation lasted maybe thirty seconds before he hung up.
"Chief wants to see you," he said, not meeting my eyes.
Chief Patricia Morrison had been running the downtown precinct for eight years. She was tough, smart, and had never struck me as someone who could be bought. But as I sat across from her desk, watching her fidget with a stress ball while I repeated my story, something felt wrong.
"Miss Chen," she said when I finished, "are you sure about what you think you saw?"
"I'm not 'thinking' anything. I saw Edward Cullen rip a man's throat out."
Morrison squeezed the stress ball harder. "Edward Cullen is a respected businessman in this community. He employs thousands of people and contributes millions to local charities."
"He's also a murderer."
"Do you have any evidence to support this accusation?"
I'd known this question was coming, but it still hit me like a punch to the gut. "My phone malfunctioned during the recording. But the absence of evidence doesn't mean—"
"It doesn't mean anything happened." Morrison stood up, her tone shifting from professional to dismissive. "Miss Chen, I've known you for years. You're a good reporter, but this... this sounds like you're having some kind of breakdown."
"Excuse me?"
"The stress of investigative work can be overwhelming. Maybe you should take some time off. See someone. Get some help."
I stared at her, feeling like I'd stepped into an alternate reality. "You're not going to investigate?"
"There's nothing to investigate. No body, no evidence, no crime." Morrison walked to her office door and opened it. "I think we're done here."
"Chief, I know what I saw—"
"Mr. Cullen has already been in touch with us this morning," she said quietly, glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. "He mentioned that you've been... harassing his employees. Stalking him. He's concerned about your mental state."
The words hit me like ice water. "He what?"
"Go home, Miss Chen. Take a vacation. And if I were you, I'd stay away from Edward Cullen and his company. For your own good."
The door closed in my face with a soft click.
I stood in the hallway for a full minute, trying to process what had just happened. Edward had somehow known I would come here. He'd called ahead, spun some story about me being unstable, and now the police thought I was having a mental breakdown.
How was that even possible? I'd only witnessed the murder twelve hours ago. When had he had time to contact the police? How had he known I would file a report?
My phone buzzed with a text from my editor at the Herald: Need to see you. Now.
The Herald's offices occupied three floors of a converted warehouse in Pioneer Square. I'd been working there for almost four years, ever since graduating with my journalism degree. Tom Bradley, my editor, was a hard-nosed former war correspondent who'd taught me everything I knew about investigative reporting.
He was also the only person who'd never doubted my instincts.
Until today.
"Ivy, sit down," Tom said without looking up from his computer screen. His office was its usual disaster zone of coffee cups, manila folders, and newspapers from six different cities. "We need to talk."
"Tom, I've got the story of the decade. Edward Cullen is—"
"Edward Cullen is off limits." Tom finally looked at me, and I could see something in his eyes I'd never seen before. Fear. "As of this morning, any stories related to Cullen Corporation or its CEO are killed. Permanently."
I felt like I'd been slapped. "What are you talking about?"
"I got a call from corporate an hour ago. Direct orders from the publisher." Tom leaned back in his chair, suddenly looking older than his fifty-eight years. "We're not to pursue any investigation into Cullen Corporation."
"Since when do we take orders from—"
"Since Edward Cullen bought a controlling interest in our parent company last month."
The room spun. "He what?"
"The acquisition went through three weeks ago. I didn't think it mattered because he's never interfered with editorial decisions. Until today." Tom rubbed his temples like he was fighting a headache. "Ivy, whatever you think you saw, whatever story you think you're chasing, it's over."
"He murdered someone, Tom."
"Do you have proof?"
"My camera malfunctioned, but—"
"Then you have nothing." Tom stood up and walked to his window, staring out at the Seattle skyline. "Look, I've known you since you were an intern. You're one of the best investigative reporters I've ever worked with. But this... this isn't a story you can win."
"So we just give up? Let him get away with murder?"
"We survive." Tom turned back to me, and for the first time since I'd known him, he looked defeated. "Ivy, I have a wife and kids. I have a mortgage and college tuition payments. I can't afford to lose this job over a story with no evidence."
"What if I find evidence?"
"Then you find another place to publish it. Because it won't be here."
I stared at him, feeling like my world was crumbling around me. "You're firing me?"
"I'm putting you on administrative leave. Paid leave," he added quickly. "Take a month. Clear your head. Come back when you're ready to focus on stories that won't get us all fired."
"Tom—"
"This conversation is over, Ivy. I'm sorry."
I left the Herald building feeling like I was walking through a nightmare. In less than six hours, I'd been dismissed by the police, banned from investigating the biggest story of my career, and put on forced leave from my job.
All because Edward Cullen had made a few phone calls.
The power that required was staggering. He hadn't just called in favors or paid off a few officials. He'd bought a newspaper company and controlled a police department. That level of influence took years to build, massive amounts of money, and connections in places most people couldn't even imagine.
But he'd done it all overnight.
As I walked back to my car, I tried to make sense of it. How had Edward known I would go to the police and the newspaper? How had he prepared for my every move before I'd even made them?
Unless he'd been watching me for longer than just last night.
The thought made my skin crawl. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my recent photos, looking for anything that might be evidence. Pictures from outside Cullen Corporation's offices, screenshots of financial documents, photos of missing persons reports.
Everything was gone.
Not just the video from last night. Every single photo, document, and note related to my investigation into Cullen Corporation had vanished from my phone. Three months of work, deleted as thoroughly as if it had never existed.
"This is impossible," I whispered, scrolling frantically through my photo gallery. "I backed everything up to the cloud."
I opened my cloud storage app. Empty. My laptop backup files? Gone. Even my printed copies, stored in my desk at home, had probably disappeared too.
Somehow, Edward Cullen had reached into my digital life and erased three months of investigative work without leaving a trace.
My hands were shaking as I unlocked my car. This wasn't just about having money or connections. This was something else. Something that went beyond normal human capabilities.
Just like lifting a two-hundred-pound man over your head.
Just like having eyes that glowed gold in the dark.
Just like moving faster than anything human could move.
The drive home felt like the longest twenty minutes of my life. Every car that got too close might contain Edward or his people. Every shadow might be hiding someone watching me. By the time I pulled into my building's parking garage, I was jumping at every sound.
I took the elevator to the sixth floor, checking my reflection in the mirrored walls. I looked like hell. Dark circles under my eyes, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, clothes wrinkled from a sleepless night. But I was still alive, still breathing, still determined to figure out what Edward Cullen really was.
The hallway to my apartment was empty and quiet. I fumbled for my keys, eager to get inside and start planning my next move. Maybe I couldn't publish the story locally, but there were national papers, online journals, freelance investigators who might—
I stopped cold at my apartment door.
The lock was wrong. Not broken, not forced. Just... different. The scratches around the keyhole that I'd memorized from three years of living here were gone. The metal looked newer, shinier.
Someone had changed my locks.
I tried my key anyway, knowing it wouldn't work. It slid into the lock but wouldn't turn. I pulled it out and examined it closely, looking for any sign that it had been damaged or altered.
The key was fine. But this wasn't my lock anymore.
A sound from inside my apartment made me freeze. Footsteps. Slow and deliberate, like someone was walking casually through my living room.
I pressed my ear to the door and heard something that made my blood run cold.
Humming. Someone inside my apartment was humming a tune I didn't recognize.
I backed away from the door, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. Should I call the police? They'd already made it clear they wouldn't help me. Should I call Tom? He'd told me to drop the story and disappear.
I was completely on my own.
The humming stopped.
For a moment, there was perfect silence. Then I heard the soft click of my apartment door being unlocked from the inside.
I turned and ran for the stairwell, not waiting to see who emerged from my apartment. Behind me, I heard the door open, but I didn't look back. I couldn't look back.
I took the stairs three at a time, my sneakers slapping against the concrete steps. Six flights down to the parking garage, then into my car, then anywhere but here.
As I reached the third floor landing, I heard a voice calling down the stairwell.
"Miss Chen?" The voice was cultured, polite, with just a hint of an accent I couldn't quite place. "There's no need to run. I only wanted to talk."
Edward Cullen's voice.
I didn't stop running.
End of Chapter 2