Chapter 7
Seven
The theater had changed.
It wasn’t just the stale air thickened with decay or the groans of its aging bones.
I hovered near the rafters, avoiding the stage entirely. I couldn’t bear to see it again. Not my body, not the bloated, grotesque shell I had become. And now, it wasn’t just me here.
Voices rose from the stage below, low murmurs cutting through the suffocating stillness. The faint glow of flashlights bobbed across the wooden floor, sweeping over the seats and walls before landing on the stage.
“Smell’s worse than I expected,” a man said, his voice muffled behind what sounded like a mask.
Campus security. Their uniforms marked them as much as their awkward hesitance. They weren’t used to this.
Another voice joined in, sharper, more authoritative. “Stay back. Let the police handle this.”
Two officers stood near the stage, their presence commanding even as their expressions betrayed discomfort. One crouched by my body, his gloved hand hovering over the gash at the back of my skull. The other stood rigidly nearby, his flashlight trained on the scene.
“Fell from the stage?” one of the officers muttered, his tone half question, half confirmation. “That’s my guess. Blunt force trauma to the head, no signs of foul play.”
“That’s your official call?” the security guard asked, shifting uncomfortably.
“It’s preliminary,” the officer replied, standing. “We’ll wait for the medical examiner, but I don’t see anything suspicious.”
I floated closer, the detachment I’d tried to cling to crumbling with every word.
No signs of foul play. No suspicion.
They didn’t know the truth. They didn’t see how Thorne had grabbed me, that not a single one of my five mates reached out to grab me in time, how all of them turned their backs and walked away while I bled out on the stage.
They would never know.
“Another student?” one of the guards asked hesitantly.
“Most likely,” the officer said, shaking his head. “Damn shame. Poor girl must’ve slipped, hit her head, and no one found her in time.”
Slipped. Hit my head. That was how they’d remember me. An accident. A footnote in someone else’s story.
I wanted to scream, to hurl the truth at them, but all I could do was watch as they continued their work. The silence felt like a curse, a barrier I couldn’t break.
One of the officers radioed in their findings, calling for someone to remove the body. My body.
I drifted upward, higher into the rafters where their flashlights couldn’t reach, as if distance could somehow dull the ache.
But nothing could dull this.
The bonds pulled at me again, insistent and unrelenting. I let them guide me, desperate for anything to drown out the memory of the officers’ words, of the way they’d reduced my death to a simple misstep.
When the pull stopped, I found myself in Thorne’s apartment.
It was sharp, modern, and meticulously clean. The furniture was sleek and dark, the kind of place that looked more like a magazine spread than a home. It suited him—cold, detached, and polished.
He was standing in the kitchen, shirtless, a glass of something dark and amber in his hand. The woman perched on the counter beside him was laughing, her head tilted back as she toyed with the hem of her dress.
I hated her instantly.
Not because she’d done anything wrong, but because she was here. Because she was laughing with him, touching him, existing in the space I was never allowed to occupy.
Thorne grinned, setting his glass aside as he stepped closer to her. His hand slid up her thigh, and she leaned in, her laughter dissolving into a soft hum of pleasure.
The bond burned, searing through me with a pain so intense I doubled over, clutching my chest.
It wasn’t fair.
He didn’t deserve this happiness. He didn’t deserve her .
They moved to the bedroom, their laughter trailing behind them. I followed like the ghost I was, hating myself for every step yet unable to look away.
The scene that unfolded was intimate, raw, and excruciatingly painful. Thorne moved with confidence, his hands roaming her body with a familiarity that felt like a betrayal. The bond between us screamed, a violent, pulsing ache that made me clutch my chest again.
Why did it hurt so much? Why did I feel this pain when he was the one who should suffer? I was the one left behind, the one broken and discarded, and yet it was my soul that splintered every time he touched someone else.
Tears I couldn’t cry burned in the corners of my soul. The bond tightened, constricted, and I felt myself unraveling.
“Why?” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Why does it still hurt?”
The woman moaned softly, her voice like a dagger in my chest. Thorne’s smile was smug, satisfied, as he whispered something I couldn’t hear.
I staggered back, the weight of it all pressing down on me. The theater called to me, the bond loosening its grip just enough to let me retreat. I didn’t hesitate. I let myself drift back to the theater, the only place that felt like mine anymore.
Yellow tape crisscrossed the stage now, its stark color glaring against the dim light. My body was gone, replaced by markers and measurements, the residue of an investigation that had already moved on.
The silence was heavier now, thick with finality.
I floated to the edge of the stage, staring down at the space where I had once been. The bloodstains were still there, dark and dried, seeping into the wood like a wound the theater couldn’t heal.
They’d taken my body, but not my memory.
I sank onto the stage, curling into myself. My mates were out there, living, laughing, fucking, while I was stuck here, tethered to a crime scene and a bond that refused to let me go.
My chest heaved with silent sobs as the theater groaned softly around me, its shadows wrapping me in their cold embrace. I pressed my hands against the stage, the rough wood scraping against my palms. The bond flickered faintly, tugging at me again, but I didn’t follow it this time.
For the first time since my death, I stayed still.
The silence swallowed me whole.