Ian sat on the edge of his bed, the blinds drawn, the afternoon sun barely a sliver against the carpet.
His phone lay on the desk beside him, screen dark, battery charged.
He hadn't moved much since that morning.
Not since the knock on his apartment door.
Two plainclothes officers. Polite but firm.
"We've received a complaint, Mr. Mercer."
"A woman named Harper Blake has asked us to tell you to stop contacting her."
"We're not pressing charges right now. But if there's any further incidents, that could change."
"Do you understand?"
He'd nodded. Smiled. Told them what they wanted to hear.
But now he sat in silence, replaying every word, his jaw tight, breath shallow.
She had called the police.
Harper.
His Harper.
She made it real.
His eyes flicked to the board on the wall. Some of the pictures had curled at the corners, faded slightly under the desk lamp. But she was still there, in every image—smiling, walking, reading, sipping tea. Her life. His world.
He stood and paced.
"She thinks I'm the villain," he muttered.
His voice was soft, almost childlike. "She thinks I'm dangerous."
He stopped in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection like it was someone else.
"But I never threatened her. Never touched her. Never even raised my voice."
He laughed bitterly.
"She brought him to the meeting. She humiliated me. He made her do it."
He looked toward the locked drawer in the corner of his desk. Not the display case—this one he kept closed.
From inside, he retrieved an envelope. Inside it: a small thumb drive.
He turned it over in his fingers.
Because part of him still believed she might come to her senses.
Still believed she might reach out.
But now?
She'd sent the police to his door.
He opened his laptop.
No email from her. No apology. Not even anything . Nothing.
His inbox was a void.
Ian opened a new message and stared at the blank "To" line.
For a moment, his fingers hovered over Harper's name.
Then… slowly, he moved them away.
No. Not yet.
He wouldn't talk to her.
She was poisoned. Clouded.
But someone else might still be reachable.
He clicked into an older folder—one he'd copied from his deleted chats. The ones from before Harper stopped responding.
Before she blocked him.
The ones where she'd sounded… softer. Curious. Conflicted.
He found the one labeled:
CLARA
A smile touched the corner of his lips.
"You were honest with me once," he whispered.
And then he began to type again.