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21

Gillian

I wake up in my apartment—not Ellis’s bedroom, not the clinical room where I was strapped down, just here. My bed, my sheets, my familiar walls.

My head pounds like a hangover, minus the night of questionable decisions. Well—minus the fun, for sure. I blink slowly, forcing my vision to focus, but everything blurs, like I’m looking through dirty water. My lashes brush stiff bandages. Weak morning light filters through, casting a pale, blurry glow.

I carefully peel the gauze away, fingertips trembling, and fumble for the dark sunglasses conveniently left beside my phone. The room sharpens painfully, bright edges slicing through my vision before settling into manageable shapes.

After that—just flashes. Bright lights. Sharp, metallic noises. A voice calmly assuring me, “You won’t remember this part.”

And I didn’t. Not fully, anyway. But my body remembers enough. Enough to make my armpits sweat and my mouth go dry.

My phone buzzes from somewhere on the nightstand. I reach for it slowly, eyes stinging, even behind the dark lenses. The screen glows too brightly, and the voicemail notification lingers, taunting me. I open it, and Ellis’s voice cuts through the haze, too smooth, too familiar.

“Last night was perfect. See you at the office.”

I stifle a bitter laugh. The words sit heavily in my chest—perfect, like this was a romantic getaway instead of a violation dressed up as medical necessity. I hate it when he acts as if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

The room spins with nauseating slowness as I push myself up from the bed. My stomach lurches, and I fight to keep from choking. I get up, dragging myself to the bathroom, my fingers scraping the wall for balance.

Under the harsh lights, I blink against the sharp, stabbing brightness. My eyes water from the sudden exposure.

The mirror doesn’t lie.

Bloodshot eyes, pupils blown out, dark bruises beneath them. I don’t recognize the person staring back at me. Her face looks hollow, haunted, like she’s been through something far worse than a simple vision correction. I don’t cry. Doing so would mean this is the worst it gets, and I know better.

I grip the sink, pressing my fingers into the cold porcelain, but it’s like everything’s bending. My reflection warps.

I close my eyes hard, then open them, trying to bring things into focus.

There’s a note— crumpled, worn. I don’t remember leaving it here, but there it is tucked between my toothbrush and my moisturizer. Panic claws at my throat.

I unfold it, and feel sick as I read my own handwriting:

Don’t trust them. Don’t trust him. Don’t forget.

The words settle like lead in my chest. I press my back to the cold bathroom wall, struggling to slow my breath. Fear, confusion—it’s too much, too fast.

My phone buzzes again, somewhere in the living room. I stumble out of the bathroom, moving toward the sound. I grope blindly, fingers sliding across the coffee table, knocking something to the floor. When I finally locate it, I squint painfully at the screen, blinking rapidly to clear the fuzzy shapes into letters.

It’s a text from an unknown number.

Rest up. Mr. Harrison expects a swift recovery. See you Monday.

Of course. Mr. Harrison . A part of me hoped it would be him checking in again, but the message is too cold, too corporate. Andra, probably. Or Stewy, masking awkwardness with detached professionalism.

I let my head fall back against the couch, and take a couple of deep breaths. Monday. That gives me time. Time to let the dizziness pass, time to try and piece together the missing fragments.

Buzz.

Another text.

Change of plans. You’re needed in the office. Your driver will arrive in ten minutes.

My pulse kicks up as I stare at the screen.

The words don’t make sense.

The first message told me to rest. This one demands the opposite.

I swallow hard. My mouth has suddenly gone dry. They’re toying with me. There’s no other explanation. Maybe testing how quickly I’ll obey. Maybe seeing if I’ll push back.

Another buzz. Another pulse of dread.

Meeting Reminder – Shergar Offices. You’re late.

I sit up too fast, and nausea slams into me like a freight train. I grip the couch, trying to steady myself. You’re late? No. That’s impossible. They just told me?—

I blink hard. Something isn’t adding up.

Maybe I lost time. Maybe I blacked out again. Maybe this isn’t backtracking—maybe I’ve been sitting here longer than I realized.

I force myself upright, moving to the closet. The clothes feel wrong—too tight, too heavy. Everything feels off, like I’m wearing someone else’s life.

My eyes meet my reflection again.

It’s clearer now. But I don’t know if that’s a good thing.

Another notification.

Your driver has arrived.

I steady myself against the doorframe, taking a breath before I step out. Ellis’s plans hang in the air, thick and suffocating.

I leave the apartment and climb into the waiting car, avoiding the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

The city moves past in jagged flashes, like a bad dream I can’t escape. Like something’s been stripped from it, leaving only the worst parts behind.

My vision is supposed to be clearer now. But the world? It feels like it’s breaking into pieces I’ll never put back together.

And somewhere, in the back of my mind, the words linger.

Last night was perfect.

The thought settles cold in my chest.

I press my palm against the car door, feeling the vibrations of the engine against my skin.

Then, for the first time, I notice something.

The bruise on my wrist.

It’s faint, but there. A thumbprint. A grip too tight. I touch it lightly, and my breath catches. A memory tries to surface—fingers on my skin, a voice too low to make out. I shake my head, pushing it away.

Then—another flash. A different hand. My own. Holding a pen. Scratching out those words.

Don’t trust them. Don’t trust him. Don’t forget.

I exhale shakily.

Too late.

The car slows, turning into the private Shergar parking garage. As we descend into the underground lot, it feels like the place is swallowing us whole.

I glance at my phone again.

A new message—Ellis’s name.

See you soon.

The car stops. The locks click open.

I clutch the door handle.

I hesitate, just long enough for the driver to clear his throat. His eyes meet mine in the mirror—silent, heavy with meaning.

Then I step out, as if I have no choice.