6. Chapter 6
Wren
I wake up screaming, my hands flying to my throat as phantom pressure crushes my windpipe. My nails claw at my skin, desperate to peel away invisible fingers that aren't really there. The darkness of my apartment presses in around me, disorienting and unfamiliar.
My breath comes in ragged gasps that barely make sound. Sweat soaks through my tank top, plastering it to my skin like a second layer. For several terrifying seconds, I can't remember where I am or why I'm here. The nightmare fades like smoke, leaving only the sensation of choking behind.
As reality slowly reassembles itself around me—my bedroom, in my apartment, where I’m safe and hundreds of miles from home—my hands still tremble against my throat.
But it's not the stalker's message that has me gasping for air. It's the other memories pushing through, the ones I keep locked away tighter than any secret.
Hospital ceiling. Antiseptic smell. The beeping of machines.
My lungs seize as panic floods my system. I curl forward, wrapping my arms around my knees as the memories crash through my carefully constructed walls.
White sheets. Scratchy hospital gown. The doctor's pitying face as he explained about the swelling in my throat.
"You should be able to speak again in a few days," he'd said, his voice clinical but kind. "The damage isn't permanent."
But it was. Not physically—the scans showed everything had healed. But my voice never came back.
I rock slightly on the bed, forcing myself to breathe through the tightness in my chest. The doctors called it psychosomatic. A mind-body response to trauma. My throat remembering what my brain wants to forget.
The night my brother's hands wrapped around my neck.
I don't remember the actual attack—a small mercy my brain has granted me.
Just waking up in the hospital the next day, unable to scream, unable to tell anyone what happened.
By then, he was already gone, leaving behind a trail of blood and horror that splashed my family name across headlines nationwide.
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow, even breaths. The way the therapist taught me before I stopped going. Before I ran.
Straightening, I turn to plant my feet on the cool floor. The panic attack is subsiding, leaving me hollow and exhausted. I check my phone: 5:17 AM. No point trying to sleep again.
As my heart rate gradually slows, another sensation registers—a scent in the air. Something masculine and expensive. Cologne, maybe? It's faint but distinctive, tugging at my memory like a forgotten word on the tip of my tongue.
I scan the dark room, suddenly alert. The windows are locked. The door is bolted. I'm alone—I know I'm alone—but the scent feels like an intrusion. Like someone else has been here.
Maybe I'm imagining it. Paranoia mixing with nightmare residue to create phantom smells. It wouldn't be the first time.
Still, I get out of bed and check every corner of my apartment. Nothing's disturbed. Nothing's missing. The scent grows fainter, until I convince myself it was never there at all.
By the time I've showered and dressed for work, the panic has receded to a dull background hum—the kind I've learned to function with. I pull my pink hair into a messy bun, apply enough concealer to hide the shadows under my eyes, and tug on my oversized hoodie like armor.
I grab my keys and open the door, ready to face another day of forced normalcy.
My foot nearly comes down on it before I see it—a small package wrapped in matte black paper, sitting directly in front of my door.
I freeze, one hand still on the doorknob. There's no shipping label. No postmark. Just a small card attached with a single word written in silver ink: "Lilliana."
My blood turns to ice.
Lilliana.
My birth name. The one I buried. The one I haven't heard in over a year.
No one on this side of the country should know that name. No one except the handful of government officials I had to tell legally when I changed it, and I seriously doubt any of them would leave me a package at dawn.
My fingers tremble as I pick it up. It's small, lightweight. Not ticking. The paper is expensive—the kind with texture that costs more than my hourly wage. For a moment, I consider throwing it away unopened. Running back inside. Contacting the police.
But what would I inform them? That someone left me a gift? That they used a name I've tried to erase?
I tear open the wrapping with shaking hands, letting the paper fall to the floor. Inside is a small velvet box, the kind that usually holds jewelry. My stomach twists as I lift the lid.
A heart pendant gleams against black velvet.
But it's not just any heart—it's intricate, crafted from gold that catches the dim hallway light.
Tiny diamonds trace one edge, forming a delicate pattern that reminds me of constellations.
This isn't some cheap trinket. This is the kind of gift that comes with expectations. With history.
With knowledge.
I snap the box shut, my breath coming faster. How? How does someone know that name? How did they find me? I've been so careful, so thorough in erasing every trace of Lilliana Cain from existence.
Yet here it is—proof that someone knows exactly who I am. Who I was.
I stuff the box into my bag and hurry down the stairs, checking over my shoulder every few steps. The street outside is just waking up, early commuters shuffling toward bus stops, a few cars rolling past. Nothing suspicious. No one watching.
But someone is. Someone has been.
I walk faster than usual, taking a different route to work. My usual path feels too predictable now, too easily anticipated. I cut through an alley, circle around a small park, double back once to make sure I'm not being followed.
I'm so lost in my spiraling thoughts that I almost collide with someone turning the corner.
"Whoa there, Sunshine!"
I jerk back, startled, and find myself staring up at Theo. His usual swagger is in place, but his eyes narrow slightly as he takes in my expression.
"Hey, you okay?" he asks, his voice losing its teasing edge. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
I force a smile and shrug, trying to convey that I'm fine. Just tired. Nothing to worry about. But my hands are still trembling, and I shove them into my pockets before he can notice.
Too late. His eyes track the movement, then return to my face, concern replacing his usual playful arrogance.
"Bullshit," he says, but gently. "What's wrong?"
I shake my head and start to step around him. I don't have the energy for his usual flirtatious banter, not with the pendant burning a hole in my bag and panic clawing at my throat.
But he surprises me. Instead of pushing or making a joke, he simply opens his arms in a silent offer. A hug. No pressure, no expectation. Just comfort, if I want it.
And maybe it's the shock of the package, or the sleepless night, or just the genuine concern in his eyes, but I find myself stepping into his embrace. He wraps his arms around me, solid and warm, and for a moment, I let myself lean into the contact.
He smells good. Clean and expensive, with notes of sandalwood and something citrusy. His heart beats steady under my ear.
When I pull back, I expect to see pity in his eyes. Instead, there's just warmth and a hint of something protective.
He raises his hands and awkwardly forms letters with his fingers. B-E-T-T-E-R?
My eyes widen in surprise. He's trying to sign to me. The gesture is so unexpectedly thoughtful that something in my chest cracks a little.
I smile—a real one this time—and quickly sign back, "Thank you."
He looks sheepish. "Sorry, I've only learned the alphabet so far. YouTube tutorials at 2 AM aren't the best teachers."
I spell out T-H-A-N-K Y-O-U, then show him the simple sign for it—hand flat against my lips, then moving forward and down.
"Thank you?" he asks, mimicking the gesture.
I nod, and something warm flickers in his eyes.
"We should probably get inside before your boss has an aneurysm," he says, holding the door for me.
The café is already busy, Maya juggling the morning rush with her usual cheerfulness. She waves when she sees me, relief evident in her expression. I'm late again.
I head straight to the back, hanging up my bag—with the package still inside—and tying on my apron. By the time I make it to the machines, Theo's order is waiting.
I prepare his drink, trying to ignore the way my hands still tremble slightly. Mocha with chili and whipped cream. An abomination of a beverage, but he loves it.
When I hand it to him, he makes the sign for thank you, his execution a little clumsy but unmistakable.
I sign back "you're welcome" and then demonstrate the motion for him.
He repeats it, a look of concentration on his face. "You're welcome," he says, signing along. "I'm going to remember that one."
Our fingers brush as he takes the cup, and for a second, everything else fades away—the stalker, the pendant, the panic. Just warm skin against mine and a genuine smile that reaches his eyes.
"See you tomorrow, Sunshine," he says, then heads for the door, pausing to throw me one last glance before he disappears into the morning crowd.
Maya slides up next to me the second Theo leaves, her eyebrows practically in her hairline.
"Um, excuse me? Did I just see Theo attempting to sign with you?" She mimics his awkward finger movements with exaggerated flair. "When exactly did this development happen?"
I busy myself with the espresso machine, pretending to be completely absorbed in wiping down the steam wand.
"Don't you dare ignore me, " she signs, stepping directly into my line of sight. "That boy is learning sign language for you. For. You." Each sign is emphasized with dramatic flair.
I roll my eyes and sign back quickly, "He learned it from YouTube. It's not a big deal."
Maya's grin turns positively wicked. "Not a big deal? The man who flirts constantly is learning a whole new language just to talk to you, and that's 'not a big deal'?" She air quotes with her fingers, eyebrows dancing.
I busy myself with the next drink order, hoping my face isn't as red as it feels.
Maya waggles her eyebrows at me. "So when's the wedding?
I'm thinking spring. You in pink, him in whatever ridiculously expensive suit he probably owns.
" She fans herself dramatically. "The man is learning an entire language just to flirt with you more effectively.
That's like... next level dedication to getting in your pants. "
I feel my cheeks flush hot as I focus intently on the drink I'm making. "He probably just feels bad for me," I sign quickly.
"Oh please," Maya scoffs, leaning against the counter. "Men don't learn languages out of pity. They barely learn them for international business deals." She starts arranging pastries in the display case, still signing with one hand. "He's into you. Like, seriously into you."
I roll my eyes, but can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips. The thought of Theo sitting up late, rewinding sign language tutorials, practicing the movements until his fingers cramped—it creates a warm flutter in my chest that I wasn't expecting.
"Besides, " Maya continues, "have you seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching? Like you're some puzzle he's desperate to solve."
I nearly drop the cup I'm holding, my hands suddenly clumsy.
I realize with a start that I'm smiling—actually smiling—and haven't thought about the package or the stalker for several minutes.
The warmth from Theo's unexpected kindness has pushed away the cold dread, if only temporarily.
It's strange how something so small—him learning to sign—has managed to eclipse something so terrifying.
"Earth to Wren," Maya waves her hand in front of my face. "You're totally zoning out on me. Is that a dreamy smile I see? Are you imagining Theo's hands signing other... things?"
I snap back to reality and flick water at her from the steam wand. She yelps and jumps back, laughing.
"Rude!" she signs with exaggerated offense. "I'm just saying what we're both thinking."
I roll my eyes and turn back to the espresso machine, but the momentary reprieve has already begun to fade. The weight of the pendant in my bag seems to grow heavier with each passing second, pulling me back into the spiral of fear.
I hand a to-go cup across the counter to the next customer and their hand jerks as someone knocks into them, spilling drops of coffee on the clean surface.
“Oh, sorry,” a man says quickly, the deep baritone hitting me oddly in the chest.
I blink, freezing for a second.
Something in the way he says it... familiar.
But when I look up he’s already gone, lost in the early morning rush.
My hands tremble just slightly as I reach for the milk jug to start on the next order.
Maya must notice the shift in my expression because her teasing smile fades, but before she can press further, the rush hits its peak. Three groups of tech workers arrive simultaneously, all needing their caffeine fix five minutes ago.
I throw myself into the work, grateful for the distraction.
The rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine, the precise measurements, the practiced movements—they ground me, giving my anxious hands something productive to do.
But still, my mind is racing through possibilities.
Who could have left that package? How did they find me? What do they want?
And most importantly—what am I going to do about it?
I've spent eighteen months disappearing. Becoming someone new. Building walls and hiding behind them.
But walls don't work if the monster already knows where you live.