Chapter 4
???
I was warm.
That was the first red flag.
Warmth didn't belong to me. Not anymore.
The second red flag?
The sheets were silk.
Not the cheap kind. The expensive shit. Hotel-suite level. The kind that whispered across your skin like wealth had a voice.
I sat up fast.
Too fast.
My head spun. My stomach flipped. But I forced myself to adjust.
I wasn't outside.
I wasn't at the park.
I was in... a bedroom.
No—a suite.
The windows were floor-to-ceiling glass. The view stretched over the entire city.
Marble floors. A chandelier. A goddamn chandelier.
And on the nightstand?
My backpack.
Untouched. Unzipped.
And right next to it—
A single envelope.
No name. Just a black wax seal.
I opened it slowly.
Inside:
One sentence.
Handwritten.
"Nice try, Stonebrook. Or should I say... Maricella?"
My chest locked.
I stood, panic climbing up my throat like it was trying to escape.
I turned toward the door—
And it opened on its own.
Automatic.
What the fuck—
A hallway stretched ahead. All white. Sterile. Cold.
I stepped out.
No guards.
No sound.
No sign of a soul.
I walked.
At the end of the hall was a set of double doors. Gold trim. Old-school, ornate.
I pushed them open.
What I saw?
I wasn't ready.
Nobody would be.
It was me.
Photos.
Dozens.
Some blurry. Some crystal clear.
Me at Sweet Peaches. Me outside school. Me at the park bench.
But not just that.
Screens lined the walls.
Footage.
Security cam. Satellite. Hidden audio.
Someone had been watching me for years.
And then I saw it.
Dead center of the wall.
A giant screen paused on one frame.
My face.
But not as Emily Stonebrook.
No hoodie.
No bags under my eyes.
No broken posture.
Hair slicked back. Dress suit. Earpiece in.
Standing at the head of a massive boardroom table.
Men in suits—powerful men—were all turned toward me.
Waiting for orders.
I stumbled back.
No fucking way.
No fucking way.
What the hell was this.
I wasn't just being watched.
I was being monitored.
Studied.
Documented.
Prepared.
For what?
I didn't know.
But I looked up one last time—
And saw the security cam blinking red in the corner.
Someone was watching me watch myself.
Same Room. Surrounded by Footage. Still Frozen.
I was frozen mid-step.
The footage of me on screen—slick, powerful, unrecognizable—kept looping like a ghost version of myself I didn't even remember becoming.
And then—
A voice.
Smooth. Cold.
Amplified through hidden speakers, but not robotic.
Personal.
Almost... intimate.
"Anna Maricella."
My blood went cold.
"You were born on a rainy night in Venice, Italy. No papers. No birth certificate. Just an unclaimed crib in a run-down shelter."
I spun around, searching for a source. Nothing. Just the room. The screen. The blinking red light.
"You were taken in by an underfunded foster home—moved illegally to the United States at age seven by one of the caretakers trying to give you a better life."
My chest rose and fell, but my hands stayed still.
Listening.
Always listening.
"You didn't get one. You were tossed between thirteen foster homes by the time you turned ten. Eventually, they got tired. Left you on the street like an old jacket."
My fingers curled slightly.
"You survived."
Pause.
"And then... you built."
The voice lowered—like it was impressed.
"By age eleven, you had already written encryption software that was later mimicked by major banks.
By twelve, you were selling code to black market buyers and ghost corporations.
By thirteen, you opened your first company under a forged adult alias.
By fourteen—you had a net worth of 1.4 billion dollars. "
I felt my knees lock.
"And then it was taken."
Another pause.
"You violated Title 15 USC § 80b-2. U.S. federal law prohibits minors from holding legal ownership of unregistered investment entities. Everything you earned? Frozen. Seized. You were labeled an identity fraud case and scrubbed from your own empire."
That law. That fucking law.
I remembered the courtroom. The cold. The way they looked at me like I stole candy instead of working three lifetimes before I turned 15.
"You went back to zero. With nothing but test scores and silence."
The voice shifted tone—colder now.
"You applied to Northvale on a fake name scholarship. You studied. You hid. You took beatings. You begged for rent."
Another pause.
"And somewhere in that time... you fell for Valentina Vercetti."
I blinked hard.
My lips barely parted.
"You couldn't pay $600. You slept on a bench. You passed out from hunger."
A soft chuckle echoed through the room.
"Quite a story, Emily Stonebrook."
Then the voice whispered—almost like it was right behind me.
"...or should I say... Anna Maricella."
I whipped around.
Still nothing.
Just me.
Just silence.
Just breathing.
I swallowed hard, throat dry.
"Who are you?" I said.
No answer.
Just the blinking red light in the top corner of the room.
And the weight of everything I just heard...
...finally crashing into me.
Same Room. Heart pounding. Alone. Not really.
"Who are you?"
I asked it once.
No answer.
Just silence.
I took a step back, trying to keep my balance, trying to piece my mind together when my world was already dust.
Then the light above me dimmed.
And another door opened.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just... click.
And open.
From the darkness behind it, I heard soft footsteps. Confident. Slow.
A woman stepped into the light.
Short. Long black coat. Heels clicking on the marble like gunshots.
Hair tied in a sleek braid. Skin like stone. Eyes hidden behind dark red sunglasses, even indoors.
She walked like she owned the building.
Hell—like she owned the city.
She stopped across from me.
And smiled.
Not friendly. Not cruel.
Curious.
"I've waited a year for this moment," she said, voice smooth like velvet but sharp enough to cut bone.
"A year watching you try to disappear. Hide. Starve. Break."
I stared at her, every part of me trying to recognize a face I'd never seen before.
She tilted her head.
"You don't know me," she said. "But I know you. Every version. Every mask. Every lie you had to wear just to survive."
I swallowed. "Why?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she walked to the edge of the room, tapped the screen behind me, and it blinked.
A single image filled the wall.
Me.
Curled up on the park bench. Last night. Unconscious.
She turned back to me.
"You weren't supposed to die on that bench," she said. "So I took you off it."
I clenched my fists. "You still haven't told me who you are."
She smiled again.
This time sharper.
"I go by many names," she said. "But for now... you can call me Selene."
I blinked.
The name echoed in my skull like it should've meant something.
It didn't.
Not yet.
But it would.
Because the way she looked at me—like I was a soldier she'd been waiting to activate—
Meant this wasn't random.
It was planned.
And the game?
Was just beginning.
An hour later.
I was clean.
It didn't sound like much.
But after days of sleeping outside, bleeding, sweating, breaking—I forgot what a hot shower felt like. The kind that didn't rush. That didn't smell like rust. That didn't make you worry someone was gonna bang on the door yelling your time was up.
I stepped out and wiped the fog off the mirror.
For the first time in weeks... I saw my reflection clearly.
Eyes sunken. Bruises still yellowing on my ribs. Hair tied back in a towel. Shoulders tense even after hot water.
But under all that?
Still alive.
I opened the bathroom door and walked into the suite again.
She was waiting.
Selene.
Now barefoot.
Still in that sleek black coat, sipping something from a porcelain cup.
She looked up.
From where I stood, I realized something else:
She was tiny.
Like... really tiny.
Her head barely came up to my chest.
I was nearly a foot taller. And yet, somehow, she still made the whole room feel like it bent around her.
She set the cup down on a tray.
"Sit," she said gently, nodding to the couch beside a low table.
I did.
And then I saw it.
Food.
Actual food.
Pasta. Fresh bread. Roasted vegetables. Chicken glazed with something that made my stomach growl so loud I winced.
She handed me a fork.
I didn't wait.
Didn't speak.
Just ate.
No, devoured.
Fork shaking in my hand. Eyes burning.
Not because the food was hot.
Because it tasted like something I hadn't felt in days:
Warmth.
She didn't interrupt.
Didn't pity me.
Didn't ask questions.
She just sat there, legs crossed, sipping her tea like this was just another quiet evening in a penthouse full of secrets.
After I finished, I wiped my mouth, set the plate down slowly, and looked at her.
"...Why?" I asked, voice hoarse.
"Why what?"
"Why are you helping me?"
She leaned back.
Tilted her head.
And for once... she looked soft.
Still unreadable, but not cold.
"You've never had a home," she said. "You've built empires, starved in alleys, survived a system designed to erase girls like you."
She stood.
Walked over.
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"So now... I'm giving you one."
My throat closed.
She walked to the corner, opened a side door, and gestured.
A bedroom.
Spacious. Warm. Safe.
I didn't move.
Couldn't.
She turned back to me, leaning slightly against the doorframe, barely taller than the knob.
"You can stay here," she said.
"As long as you need."
Late night. Selene asleep somewhere. I'm not.
I couldn't sleep.
The bed was too soft.
The air was too quiet.
And Selene?
Too kind.
Too perfect.
Too... convenient.
Something didn't add up.
And when things don't add up—
I open my laptop.
I accessed my backup OS. The one I wrote myself at twelve. Hidden behind five layers of firewalls, quantum-encrypted in real time.
I tapped in.
Started the search.
Selene.
Only first name. No last. But power leaves traces.
I found one.
Then another.
And then—
A pattern.
Surveillance logs.
IP addresses traced to cameras I didn't even know were watching me.
Photos I never shared.
Screenshots of my encrypted files.
And worst of all?
Stills of me... as Anna.
Two years ago. At a summit in Berlin.
She was there.
In the crowd.
Face blurred in every official shot—except mine.
She watched me rise.
And she watched me fall.
And she never looked away.
Every address I lived at.
Every school I enrolled in.
Every foster home.
Every class.
Every single moment of pain—Selene watched it unfold like a show.
She wasn't helping me now because she just found me.
She'd been there the whole time.
Waiting.
Feeding her obsession with every click, every file, every heartbeat.
I leaned back in my chair.
Exhaled slowly.
"...So this is it," I muttered.
I pulled out my phone.
Opened the account.
The real one.
@stonebrook
The one with just 1,400 followers. Quiet. Unimportant. Mine.
I scrolled through my own followers.
Didn't even need to check the full list.
I knew she was in there.
Lurking.
Watching.
Every post. Every like. Every caption I dropped like a breadcrumb.
I smirked.
"...It's time to give her what she wants."
I stood in front of the full-body mirror.
Lights off.
Only the soft glow of the skyline outside slipping through the curtains.
I pulled open the closet.
Reached behind my stacked hoodies, beneath my school uniform and backup sweaters.
There it was.
The pink latex maid outfit.
From Sweet Peaches Diner.
Tight. Ridiculous. Hot as hell. The same one that made Valentina Vercetti glitch like a broken AI.
I held it for a second.
Felt the weight of who I used to be in that uniform.
Broke. Hungry. Tired.
Invisible.
Not tonight.
I slipped it on.
Slow.
Deliberate.
I knelt on the carpet in front of the mirror.
Turned the camera on.
Flash.
Click.
The screen lit up with the preview.
Hair messy. Lip slightly bitten. Shadows cutting across my collarbone. Knees on the ground. Latex tight around every inch of skin like it was painted on.
Expression?
Dead serious.
No smiles.
No posing.
Just me.
Broken.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
I opened Instagram.
Captioned it.
"still an abandoned orphan looking for survival."
And posted it.
No hashtags.
No tags.
Didn't need to.
Because I knew who it was for.
And I knew she'd see it.
They'd all see it.