CHAPTER 5: ERASED
Isla's fingers dig into the blanket so hard she feels the fabric starting to tear. Her whole body is frozen, locked in place, held there by the man's gaze. He is looking at her like she is something he has been searching for his whole life. Like she is a ghost that finally decided to show herself.
Her chest feels like it is caving in. There is a twist there, low and deep, something she cannot name. Recognition without memory. A pull she does not understand. Her body knows something her mind cannot reach, and it terrifies her.
"You…" Her voice comes out small, barely there. Her lips are dry. Her throat is tight. "Who are you?"
The man does not move from the doorway. He stands there, his hands at his sides, his posture loose but ready. He looks like someone who has spent a lot of time waiting. Someone who has learned to be patient because being patient is the only way to survive.
His eyes hold hers. They are dark, but not cold. There is something in them that looks almost like relief. Or maybe hope.
"Someone who has been searching," he says. His voice is calm, measured, but there is an urgency underneath it, something pressing against the calm like water against a dam. "You were erased, Isla. They wanted the world to forget you. They wanted everyone to believe you never mattered. But I found you."
Erased.
The word hits her like a wave. It washes over her, through her, into the spaces where her memories should be. She does not know what it means. She does not know who erased her or why. But her body reacts before her mind can catch up. Her hands shake. Her breath catches. Tears prick at her eyes, hot and sudden.
"I don't understand," she whispers. Her voice cracks. "What do you mean, erased? Who would erase me? Why would someone—"
She stops. Her chest heaves. The room feels too small, the walls too close, the air too thin. She looks at the woman beside her, then back at the man in the doorway, her eyes moving between them like she is looking for something to hold onto.
The man takes a slow step forward. Not too fast. Not too close. He moves like someone approaching a wounded animal, careful, deliberate, giving her time to adjust. His hands stay at his sides. His shoulders stay relaxed. He is trying to tell her, without words, that he is not a threat.
But she does not know that. She does not know anything. She does not know who to trust or what to believe or even who she is.
"They wanted you gone," he says. His voice is low, gentle, like he is telling her something that hurts him to say. "Someone in your life, someone close to you, decided that you were in the way. That your existence was a problem they needed to solve. So they solved it."
He stops a few feet from the bed. He does not sit. He does not reach for her. He just stands there, letting her look at him, letting her decide.
"The crash," he continues, "was not an accident. The gunshot was not random. Someone paid to make sure you did not survive. And when you did survive, someone made sure the world believed you were dead. They buried your name. They buried your face. They buried every trace of you that they could find."
Isla's hand moves to her chest, pressing against the bandage beneath her shirt. Her fingers touch the edge of it, feel the rough fabric, the slight bump of the wound underneath. She has been touching it all day, without realizing why. Her body has been trying to tell her something her mind refused to hear.
"I was shot," she says. It is not a question. She knows it now. She has known it since she woke up, somewhere deep down, somewhere she did not want to look.
The man nods slowly. "You were."
The word settles in her chest, heavy and cold. She closes her eyes, and behind her lids, she sees it. A flash of light. A loud sound. A voice, calm and empty. Sorry about this.
Her eyes snap open. Her breathing is too fast. Her hands are shaking. She looks at the man, at the woman, at the small room with its thin curtains and wooden walls, and she feels like she is falling.
"Why?" The word comes out sharp, desperate, nothing like her. "Why would someone do that to me? What did I do? What did I—"
"Nothing." The man's voice cuts through her panic, firm but not harsh. "You did nothing. That is the worst part. You did nothing wrong, and they still decided you needed to disappear."
Isla stares at him. Her chest rises and falls too fast. Her hands grip the blanket like it is the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
"You were an heir," the man says. "The only child of William Prescott, the owner of Prescott Holdings. You had something they wanted. Something they believed should belong to them."
The names mean nothing to her. William Prescott. Prescott Holdings. They float in her head like pieces of a puzzle she does not have the box for. But something in her chest reacts. A tightening. A pull. Like those names are hooks, and somewhere deep inside her, something is caught on them.
"The people who wanted you gone," the man continues, "are the people who should have protected you. Your stepmother. Your stepsiblings. They saw you as an obstacle. Something standing between them and what they wanted. So they removed you."
Isla shakes her head. The movement is small, weak, but it costs her something. Her head throbs. Her vision blurs.
"My family," she whispers. The word tastes strange in her mouth. Bitter. "My family wanted me dead."
The man does not answer. He does not need to. The truth is written on his face, in the lines around his eyes, in the way his jaw tightens.
The woman beside her shifts on the bed. Her hand finds Isla's again, warm and steady.
"You are not the first," she says quietly. "And you will not be the last. But you are alive. That is something they cannot take from you."
Isla looks at her, then back at the man. Her eyes are wet, but she does not cry. She is too tired to cry. Too empty.
"You said they erased me," she says. Her voice is flat now. Hollow. "What does that mean? What did they do?"
The man exhales slowly. He looks at the woman, and something passes between them. A silent conversation. A decision.
"They told the world you died in a car accident," he says. "They held a press conference. They gave statements. Your stepmother cried for the cameras. Your stepsister posted a tribute on social media. Your fiancé—" He stops. Something flickers in his eyes. Something that looks almost like anger. "Your fiancé has not left his room since they found out."
Isla's brow furrows. "Fiancé?"
She does not remember him. The word means nothing. But something in her chest tightens, just for a second. A flash of something she cannot name.
The man watches her face. He sees the confusion, the emptiness, the lack of recognition. Something softens in his expression. Something that looks almost like sympathy.
"You were supposed to get married yesterday," he says. "The night before the wedding, you found him with your stepsister. In bed. Together."
The words land like stones. Isla does not remember. She does not see his face or her face or the room where it happened. But her chest knows. Her chest remembers the betrayal. It tightens and aches, and tears fill her eyes without her permission.
"He was with her," she whispers. "And I ran."
"You ran," the man confirms. "You got in your car and you drove. And they were waiting for you."
Isla closes her eyes. The tears slip down her cheeks, hot against her cold skin. She does not wipe them away. She does not have the strength.
She sits there, in the small room above a market in Bangkok, with a new name on her wrist and a hole in her chest where her memories should be, and she tries to understand. Tries to fit the pieces together. Tries to make sense of a world where the people who were supposed to love her wanted her dead.
She opens her eyes.
"You said they erased me," she says. "My name. My face. My life. They made the world believe I never mattered."
The man nods slowly. "Yes."
"But you found me."
A pause. The man's eyes hold hers. For a moment, something passes between them. Something she does not have a name for.
"Yes," he says. "I found you."
---
Across the ocean, in the house that was supposed to be her home, the morning light falls on faces that do not mourn.
Sophia Prescott's heels click against the marble floor, a steady rhythm that echoes through the quiet house. She walks from the living room to the kitchen to the study, her phone pressed to her ear, her voice low and controlled. She is making calls. Arrangements. Plans.
The television is still on in the living room, the volume low, the anchor's voice a distant murmur. The photograph of Isla is still on the screen. The same photograph. The one where she looks like she is waiting for permission to exist.
Sophia glances at it as she passes. Her eyes do not soften. Her step does not slow. She keeps walking, her heels clicking, her voice steady, her face composed.
Across the room, Alexia lounges on the couch, her phone in her hands. She has been scrolling for hours, reading the headlines, the comments, the tributes from people who never knew her stepsister. Some of them are beautiful. Some of them are hollow. Some of them are so full of grief she almost believes them.
"Everyone mourns what they never noticed," she murmurs. The words slip out before she can stop them.
Her mother's footsteps pause. Alexia looks up. Sophia stands in the doorway, her phone still pressed to her ear, her eyes on her daughter. Her expression is unreadable.
"I said," Alexia says, her voice light, "that everyone is mourning her now. When she was alive, no one even knew her name."
Sophia stares at her for a long moment. Then she turns and walks away, her heels clicking, her voice returning to the phone call like nothing happened.
Alexia watches her go. Her lips curve into a small smile. She looks back at her phone, at the photograph of Isla, at the face of a girl who spent her whole life in the shadows.
"At least now," she whispers, "you're famous."
Upstairs, in a room with the curtains drawn and the lights off, Braxton Parker sits on the floor with his back against the bed. His phone is in his hands. The screen is lit. Thirty-three missed calls. All from Isla. All from the night she died.
He has been staring at the number for hours. Thirty-three. He dialed it this morning, before the sun came up, before the house woke up, before anyone could tell him not to. It rang four times, and then a voice came on. Her voice. Her voicemail. The one she recorded three years ago, when they first started dating, when her voice was still soft and uncertain, when she still believed he would never hurt her.
Hi, this is Isla. Leave a message, and I'll call you back. Probably.
He listened to it four times. Then he hung up. He did not leave a message. What would he say? I'm sorry I was in bed with your sister when you needed me? I'm sorry I ignored your calls? I'm sorry you died thinking I never loved you?
He closes his eyes. Her face comes to him again. Standing in the doorway. Her dress white. Her face pale. Her eyes wet. Her voice, when she finally spoke, thin and cracked.
Get out.
He presses his hand to his face. His fingers dig into his temples. He cannot breathe. The room is too small. The walls are too close. Everything smells like her, or maybe it smells like Alexia, or maybe it smells like his own guilt, and he cannot tell the difference anymore.
A soft knock comes from the door. He does not answer.
The door opens anyway.
Alexia stands in the doorway, her face soft, her eyes sad. She is wearing a black dress, simple, elegant. She looks like she is going to a funeral.
"Braxton," she says softly. "People are here. They want to talk to you. About the service. About what to do with her things. About—"
"I don't care." His voice comes out rough, broken. He does not look at her. He cannot look at her.
Alexia steps into the room. Her footsteps are light on the carpet. She stops a few feet away from him, her hands clasped in front of her.
"I know this is hard," she says. "I know you're hurting. But you have to come out sometime. You have to face people. You have to—"
"I have to what?" He looks up at her then, and she sees his face for the first time since last night. His eyes are red. His face is pale. He looks like a man who has not slept in days, even though it has only been hours. "What do I have to do, Alexia? Pretend I'm sad? Pretend I didn't spend the night before her wedding in your bed? Pretend I didn't kill her?"
Alexia's face does not change. She looks at him with those wide, sad eyes, and something moves behind them. Something quick and sharp, there and gone.
"You didn't kill her," she says quietly. "It was an accident. She was upset. She was driving too fast. It wasn't your fault."
Braxton laughs. It is a hollow sound, empty of anything that could be called humor.
"Wasn't my fault," he repeats. He looks at his hands. They are shaking. "I was in your bed, Alexia. I was in your bed, and she was alone, and she called me, and I didn't answer. Thirty-three times, she called me. And I didn't answer."
He looks up at her. His eyes are wild.
"So don't tell me it wasn't my fault. Don't stand there in that dress and pretend you care. You wanted her gone. You always wanted her gone. And now she is."
Alexia's expression flickers. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to see it. Then the sadness returns, soft and gentle, the face of a woman who is grieving a sister she never loved.
"I'm sorry you feel that way," she says. She turns toward the door. "I'll tell them you're not feeling well. I'll handle the arrangements."
She walks out, her footsteps light, her shoulders straight. In the hallway, she pauses. She looks back at the closed door. Her lips curve into a small smile.
Then she walks away.
---
Outside, on the balcony overlooking the reporters gathered at the gate, Sam Prescott leans against the railing with his phone pressed to his ear.
His voice is low, casual, the voice of a man who has nothing to worry about.
"Everything is under control," he says. His eyes are fixed on the cameras below, on the microphones, on the faces of reporters who are hungry for a story. "No one is looking. No one is asking questions. They all believe it was an accident. A tragedy. A bride-to-be who couldn't handle the pressure."
He pauses, listening. His jaw tightens slightly.
"I'm telling you, it's fine. The hospital lost her records. The police closed the case. There's nothing to find. No body, no evidence, no questions." He smirks. "She is gone. She has been erased. And no one is going to uncover anything, because there is nothing to uncover."
He ends the call and slips the phone into his pocket. He looks down at the reporters below, at the cameras pointed at the mansion, at the world that is already forgetting her name.
"Goodbye, Isla," he mutters.
He turns and walks back inside.
---
In the small room in Bangkok, the morning light has shifted. The sun is higher now, the shadows shorter, the room warmer. But Isla still feels cold.
She sits on the bed with the blanket pulled around her shoulders, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea she has not touched. The man—he has not given her his name, and she has not asked—sits on a stool near the window. The woman is in the kitchen, moving quietly, giving them space.
Isla stares at the tea. The steam rises, curls, disappears.
"Erased," she whispers. She has been saying the word to herself, testing it, trying to understand what it means. "They erased me. My name. My life. Everything I was. They wanted the world to forget I ever existed."
She looks up at the man.
"But I'm here. I'm alive. I'm sitting in this room, drinking tea, breathing. How can I be erased if I'm still here?"
The man watches her for a moment. His face is hard, but his eyes are not. There is something in them that looks almost like admiration.
"They can erase your name," he says. "They can erase your face from the news. They can tell the world you never mattered. But they cannot erase you. Not really. Not while you remember. Even if it's just this." He gestures to her chest, to the place where her heart is beating. "You remember that you are alive. That you survived. That is something they cannot take."
Isla's hand moves to her chest. She feels her heartbeat under her palm, steady, strong. She did not know she was holding onto it, but she is. She has been holding onto it since she opened her eyes.
"I don't remember anything," she says. "I don't remember my name. I don't remember my face. I don't remember the people who tried to kill me. I don't remember the man I was supposed to marry. I don't remember anything."
She looks at him. Her eyes are wet, but she does not cry. She is too tired to cry. Too empty.
"But I remember this," she says. She presses her hand harder against her chest. "I remember that I am here. That I am alive. That I survived."
The man nods slowly. A small smile crosses his face, there and gone.
"That is enough," he says. "That is where you start."
The woman comes back into the room. She carries a small bowl of rice, a dish of vegetables, a glass of water. She sets them on the table beside the bed, her movements quiet, careful.
"You must eat," she says. "You must get strong. You have a long way to go."
Isla looks at the food. Her stomach turns. She does not want to eat. She does not want to do anything. But she picks up the spoon anyway. She takes a bite. The rice is warm. It settles in her stomach, solid, real.
She takes another bite. And another.
When she is done, she sets the spoon down and looks at the man.
"What do I do now?" she asks. "Who am I supposed to be?"
The man looks at her for a long moment. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but there is something in them that looks almost like hope.
"You are whoever you want to be," he says. "They erased Isla Prescott. But they left you. And you get to decide what comes next."
Isla looks down at her hands. At the bracelet on her wrist. At the name that is not hers.
Mali, she thinks. She does not say it out loud. But she holds it in her chest, next to her heartbeat, next to the memory of being alive.
They erased her.
But she is still here.
And that is where she starts.