Page 35 of Fated Love with You

“Well, you might want to speed up that process because she might be out of your reach by then.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Check your phone.”

I pull it out and unlock the screen, seeing a new alert glowing.

One-way flight confirmation: Autumn Jane.

For this Friday.

End of Episode 11

The Train Never Leaves The Station

EPISODE 12

Autumn

The spa air is thick with lavender and eucalyptus, steeping the room in heat and silence. Tucked into the hills, this suite feels worlds away from Ryde and his men, from the chaos still pulsing in my head.

I let the tension drain from my limbs, but the literal weight on my chest stays right where it is. The binder Kylie gave me.

I lift it again—this time, I force myself to flip through the pages.

The first few pages are littered with lists of addresses and coordinates in tiny print. By the fifth page, I realize these are all residences and businesses suspected to belong to Ryder. In the margins, there are scrawled notes—LLCs, cryptic names of people I know I’ll never meet.

I flip again.

A new tab catches my breath:Suspected Involvement in Mass Murder. I brace myself for details about the mansion fire, but instead I’m hit with something far stranger.

Sixteen faces.

They all bear his stunning blue eyes. His jawline. His impossible calm.

They have to be his family…

On the next page, the same faces appear again—this time arranged neatly, with birthdates and death dates listed beside them. There are no names, but one thing unites them all: the same date of death.

There’s no listed cause.

I stare at the page, heart thudding.Why didn’t he die with them? Why was he spared when no one else was?

I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to keep going. I slam the binder shut and shove it aside.

Needing a distraction, I cross the suite and try the door to the heated pool.

Locked.

I grab a robe, slip it over my skin, and step into the hallway in search of someone who can help.

The warmth of the suite vanishes behind me. The air in the corridor is cooler now—noticeably so, like the heat’s been siphoned out on purpose.

No attendant in sight.

I move toward the hot tub lounge, but the space is silent and still. Abandoned.

The candlelit corridor—where a dozen patrons were chatting just minutes ago—is now deserted. No voices. No laughter. Just wax pooling onto marble and a silence that curls under my skin.