And then I saw.
Marcello, drunk, slack, smiling at her like she’d hung the moon. “Vivienne’s so beautiful,” he murmured. “Smells like peaches. Bianca… smells like dishwater and fights.”
They climbed the stairs together. I remained frozen, body trembling. She laughed once more before disappearing down the hall.
And then it hit me—
They hadn’t killed me. They had replaced me.
---
I waited. Not out of hope. Not out of care. But because I had to see it for myself.
One o’clock. Two. Still nothing. Upstairs lights on, footsteps absent, no doors closing. Only muffled laughter, then silence.
I sat on the couch, robe around me, coffee untouched, the house reeking of lemon cleaner and betrayal.
Maybe she had fallen asleep in the guest room. Maybe…
A thump. Another. Rhythmic. Too… intimate.
My blood ran cold.
I rose, as if pulled forward by invisible hands. Each step up the stairs felt like a prayer. The hallway stretched endlessly, a graveyard of memory. The bedroom door—his bedroom now—was cracked open.
And there they were.