Isabella's Point Of View
I had barely closed my apartment door behind me when the adrenaline from the bar began to fade, leaving me exhausted and uneasy. Manila's night was quiet, a few distant horns, a streetlight flickering outside my window, and the occasional bark of a dog. I sank onto my couch, trying to convince myself I was safe.
I wasn't.
A sudden knock at the door jolted me upright. My heart hammered in my chest. Who would be at my apartment this late? Visitors were rare; unexpected visitors were dangerous.
I froze, ears straining. Another knock. Louder this time. Hesitant, deliberate, as if testing me.
"Who is it?" I called, my voice steadier than I felt.
No answer.
I edged toward the door, gripping the handle. My mind raced—police? A neighbor? Or… him?
A small envelope slipped under the door. My eyes widened. Slowly, I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. No stamp. No name. Just my name, written in an elegant, precise script: Isabella Seraphina De Santos.
I opened it carefully. Inside was a single black card. No words. Just a faint, lingering scent of something—expensive, intoxicating, his signature cologne.
I swallowed hard, heart pounding in my throat.
He knew where I lived.
Every rational thought screamed at me to call the police, to run, to do anything but touch the card. But curiosity—and something darker—won. I inhaled sharply, closing my eyes to steady my shaking hands.
A note slipped out from behind the card: "Don't pretend that you didn't see anything that night. –S"
My pulse raced. Anger. Fear. Thrill. Confusion. I sank onto the couch, gripping the envelope as if it were a lifeline and a trap all at once.
I wanted to hate him. I wanted to rip the card to pieces. I wanted to tell myself I wasn't affected.
But I couldn't.
Sid didn't just enter a room, he invaded your life. Quietly. Calculated. And right now, he had made it impossible for me to forget him.
I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to calm the rapid beat of my heart. The city outside was silent, but in my apartment, the air felt thick with his presence, as if the shadows themselves had grown heavier.
I wasn't safe. Not really. Not ever, if he decided I wasn't allowed to be.
And for some part of me that I refused to acknowledge, I didn't want to be.