Chapter 13 – Lydia - Masks Don’t Slip
I stand in the center of the loft, arms hanging limp, gaze drifting from the monitor to the table and back again.
The envelope’s still there. Open. Facedown. Like even it doesn’t want to be looked at anymore.
You don’t belong to him.
The ink wasn’t smudged. Whoever wrote it had a steady hand. Too steady. And they didn’t write it for me. They wrote it for him. For Silas.
He read it without blinking.
He said it wasn’t Drazen.
And I believed him.
That’s what terrifies me most.
I should’ve torn it up. Burned it. Spit on it. But I didn’t. I let it sit there like a conversation I’m still trying not to finish.
I look across the loft.
The burner Silas gave me is on the counter. Still turned off. I left it there on purpose, like a dare to myself, to him, to whatever this thing is that keeps pulling us back into each other’s gravity.
I stand. Walk to it. Pick it up.
The weight surprises me. It feels heavier than before.
Like it knows what I’m thinking.
I press a button, and the screen flares to life.
No messages.
No calls.
Just the single contact he programmed in before giving it to me. No name. Just a number.
I stare at it.
Not dialing.
Just... holding the possibility.
My thumb hovers over the call button.
One press, and he'd answer. I know he would.
But I don't press it.
Not yet.
Because calling him would mean admitting something I'm not ready to say out loud.
That I want him here. That the space he left behind feels louder than the silence ever did before.
I think about the way he looked at me when I asked him who he really is, and he answered with a word no one else has ever used like a name.
Wreckage.
I should've laughed. Should've thrown it back at him. But all I could think was how right it sounded.
Not as an excuse.
As a warning.
And I think I want it anyway.
I put the burner back down.
Time slips in quiet increments right before my eyes, dusk creeps in.
I move to the bathroom and have a quick shower, then I slip into some fresh clothes, earrings, other accessories, and a jacket.
Because I know Drazen’s going to call soon. He’ll send Dom. Or worse, he’ll show up himself.
And I need to be ready.
Because whatever game he thinks I’m playing?
I’m not losing again.
The knock comes twenty minutes later.
Of course it’s Dom.
He doesn’t say anything when I open the door, just flicks his gaze over my shoulder, checking for shadows. Like maybe Silas would still be here, tucked behind a wall or stepping out of the shower with no apology in his eyes.
I don’t give him long to look.
I step out and pull the door shut behind me.
“You’re glowing,” Dom says with a crooked grin.
“Fuck off.”
He chuckles but doesn’t push. Just gestures toward the elevator with a sweep of his hand, like I’m the guest in all this. Like I’m the one who should feel lucky to be summoned. Moments later, we’re sliding into the car.
The car smells like leather and leftover smoke. Dom’s cologne is acrid today — too sweet, like it’s trying to cover up blood.
We don’t talk on the way down.
He drives fast, hand slung across the wheel like he’s already bored. Like this is just a routine errand: pick up the girl, drop her at the lion’s den, watch what’s left of her crawl back out.
The city blurs past the window. Neon signs flickering like false starts. Wet pavement glittering under street lamps like a promise nobody means.
When we get to the club, he doesn’t park in the front.
He takes the alley.
The back entrance.
The place where real things happen, the ones no music plays over, no lights capture.
He doesn’t tell me where we’re going.
He doesn’t need to.
I follow him through the back hall, past the kitchen, through a staff door that clicks shut like a vault behind us.
Then we’re inside one of Drazen’s private lounges.
The kind nobody gets invited to without bleeding for it first.
He’s already there.
Sitting like a king dressed in ink-black silk, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest leisure, not invitation. A lowball glass rests in his hand, filled with something dark, expensive, untouched.
His eyes track me like heat.
I don’t flinch.
I walk in. I stand. I wait.
He gestures to the seat across from him with two fingers.
I don’t sit.
He doesn’t smile. Yet, at least. That’s the thing about Drazen. The charm comes after the violence. Not before.
"You've been useful," he says.
I don't respond. There's no safe answer to that.
He nods slowly, tapping one finger against his glass. "The delivery you made earlier. The client was... receptive."
"He understood the message."
"Good." He takes a sip. "That's what I value about you, Lydia. Clarity without mess."
Dom lingers by the wall like he’s waiting for a signal. One he’s been given before. One I’ve seen him carry out.
I stay standing.
Drazen finally smiles. Just enough to flash a sliver of white, like threat disguised as charm.
"You've always been observant," he says. "It's one of your better qualities."
I don't take the bait. "Observation is survival."
"True." He swirls his drink. "And what have you observed lately?"
The question sounds casual. It's not.
He's testing me. Seeing if I've noticed something I shouldn't have. Or if I'm about to become a problem he needs to manage.
"That your world is getting more crowded," I say carefully. "More players. More moving parts."
His gaze sharpens slightly. "And?"
"And crowded spaces make people nervous. Nervous people make mistakes."
That earns me a small huff of amusement.
He sips his drink. The first swallow. His mouth barely moves.
“I heard Silas spent some time in your apartment.”
There it is.
I meet his eyes, no pause.
“He left.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Did you ask a question at all? I must have missed the inflection at the end.”
Dom shifts slightly, like he’s getting bored again. Or like he’s waiting to enjoy this.
Drazen doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.
“He’s not mine yet,” he says.
“Didn’t realize you were collecting.”
“I collect potential.”
I don’t say anything.
He sets his glass down.
“It’s not jealousy,” he adds, almost conversational. “It’s curiosity.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Since when are you curious?”
“Since I saw your hands shaking the last time he looked at you.”
I blink once. Just once. Not slow.
Drazen leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled.
“Tell me, Lydia,” he says, voice too smooth. “Is he just good at pretending? Or are you getting worse at it?”
I don’t look away.
“Maybe we both are.”
A pause.
Then he smiles again. This one wider.
Like it’s a win. Like he’s finally got the angle he needed.
He stands slowly, moving toward me like he’s approaching something feral. When he stops, we’re too close. I can smell the whiskey in his breath, feel the heat of his body in the narrow space between us.
He lifts his hand.
Touches my jaw.
Not hard. Not soft. Just... there. A placeholder for control.
“You’ve always been valuable,” he says. “But value fades fast when it starts getting shared.”
I keep my mouth shut.
Let him stare.
Let him think I’m still calculating which leash I prefer.
He leans in.
Not to kiss me.
To say something meant to cut.
“You think I forgot what’s in that file?”
My stomach tightens. Not from surprise.
From memory.
The file. The one he waved in my face when I first tried to leave. Photos. Statements. Names I never touched but somehow got pinned to. All of it clean enough to stick. All of it fake enough to feel like a joke God forgot to laugh at.
His voice drops one note lower.
“I didn’t erase you, Lydia. I just buried you deep enough to keep you breathing.”
I speak without blinking.
“Then you should remember who taught me how to dig.”
His smile stays.
But the pressure changes.
His hand drops.
And for a moment, I see something flicker behind his eyes. Not rage.
Amusement.
Like I’m the snake he trained to bite, and now he’s curious how long I’ll keep striking before I turn the venom on myself.
He steps back.
“Dom will take you home.”
“No.”
His brow lifts.
“I’ll find my own way.”
Drazen looks like he wants to say something else. But he doesn’t.
Because he knows I’ve already decided.
And that means I’ve already won this round.
I don’t go home right away.
Instead, I take the hallway past the kitchen, hook left through the old storage corridor that’s half-swallowed by the renovations. Most of the staff doesn’t use this wing anymore. Too many broken locks. Too many ghosts in the walls.
Perfect for me.
The lights above flicker with a mind of their own. Water drips somewhere behind the drywall. The air smells like old bleach and wet paint.
I count the doors.
One... two...
The third on the left used to be Elias’s.
Not an office, or a bedroom, but some secret third thing. A haven. Or just a hole where he disappeared when he needed space. When the weight of every secret on this floor started pressing into his bones and he wanted to hear himself break without anyone watching.
It’s locked, of course.
It always is.
But I still reach for the handle, like a bad habit.
My fingers hover there, just touching the metal. Cold. Familiar.
Then I crouch.
Feel along the baseboard where the drywall is warped. Where we carved a notch years ago, not big enough to be noticed, just wide enough to slip a fingertip through and pop the magnetic plate.
I do.
It clicks loose.
Behind it, a cavity the size of a shoebox.
Empty, mostly.
Except for one thing.
A scrap of paper.
Folded once.
Old, but not yellowed. Protected by the wall.
I unfold it.
Six digits. Handwritten.
No name. No instruction.
Just a phone number that should’ve stopped meaning anything years ago.
I stare at it, thumb pressed to the top edge, heart thudding in slow-motion.
This was his way out.
His code.
If everything went wrong, we’d use this number. One call. No second chances.
I never made the call.
Because I didn’t believe in ghosts back then.
But now I’m standing in a hallway I shouldn’t be in, holding proof that someone—maybe Elias, maybe something worse—is still playing the same game I thought was over.
I don’t dial.
I don’t even reach for my phone.
I just trace the numbers with my thumb like I can read them into memory by friction alone.
Then I refold the paper and slide it into my back pocket.
Not because I want to use it. Because I know that, soon, I might not have a choice.
I stand again.
The door in front of me creaks softly. It always did. Even when Elias still used this space, back when his shadow touched every wall in this building.
I rest my fingers on the frame.
Not to open it.
Just to feel it.
There was a time this door opened only for me. Not because he made it a rule, but because no one else ever bothered to knock.
Now it’s shut, and has been for months. Just like him.
Detached in that precise way only Elias can manage. The kind that makes you feel like he’s still watching, just not intervening.
I don’t press my forehead to the wood.
That would make this something it isn’t.
Instead, I step back. Because standing here any longer would feel like nostalgia, and I don’t have the luxury for that. Not tonight. Not anymore.
When I leave, I don’t bother to look back.
The loft is exactly how I left it. I’m not sure I am. I toss my keys on the counter and pull my jacket off in one sweep. Let it drop over the chair instead of hanging it. The fabric slides, sighs into the wood.
I peel off my boots next.
Then the earrings.
The ring.
Going through the motions, every piece comes off like a layer I am shedding. In the bathroom, I wipe the paint off my face: the lipstick, the dark-lined eyes, the faint shimmer across my cheeks that makes men forget what they’re asking for.
It’s all for show.
All of it.
The mirror doesn’t lie. Not to me.
I stare at myself. Not long. Just enough.
Then I turn and leave the bathroom lights on as I cross back to the kitchen, tugging the elastic from my hair and shaking it loose. The burner phone is still on the counter where I left it, calling to me, luring me in.
I pick it up. Thumb hovers over the screen. There’s still no message from him. No call. No missed anything.
It makes my teeth grind.
I open a new message window.
There are a hundred things I could ask. Did you find out who sent the note? What aren't you telling me? Why does it feel like you're protecting me from something you won't name?
But what comes out is simpler. More dangerous.
Why me?
Two words that ask everything I'm not supposed to want answered.
I hit send before I can think better of it.
No read receipt. No typing bubble.
Nothing.
Just space.
I set the phone down like it's guilty.
I set the phone down like it’s guilty.
Then I sit beside it.
Still.
Breathing through my nose. Counting the seconds.
I don’t know what I expect.
But it’s not silence.
And it’s not comfort either.
Whatever he gave me, whatever thread he thought he left in my hands, is unraveling too fast to hold onto.
And I’m not trying to tie it back together.
Not anymore.
I fall asleep on the couch. And I don't dream, not really.
But something inside me stirs. Images half-formed. Threads from a nightmare I’ve grown used to tracing by touch.
That file.
The one Drazen claims to hold.
The one I’ve seen with my own eyes.
Not truth.
Something worse.
Something too believable to argue with, even if every word is a lie.
A name in red ink. An account number. A photo pulled from a bad angle, from a worse night. A place I never went, except on paper. A dead man I didn’t kill.
They don’t need facts. They need fear.
And I’ve learned how to carry mine quietly.
When I wake, the room is still dark.
I stand without thinking. Walk to the window and stare down at the city that keeps swallowing people like me and spitting out something smaller.
Someone once told me I was made for more than survival.
But maybe that’s all any of us are doing.
Maybe that’s what he sees when he looks at me.
Not a prize.
Not a threat.
Just someone who still knows the difference.