Dark place

My heart drops as I realize what I'm holding. It's not just some decorative trinket or misplaced key—it's a camera. A spy camera, small and sleek, designed to stay hidden. Not like the obvious security cameras at the entrance, meant for protection. No, this one is different. This one was meant to watch me without my knowledge.

I stagger back, the weight of the realization hitting me like a freight train. My breath catches in my throat, my chest tightening painfully as if the air has been sucked out of the room. The world around me tilts, the luxurious penthouse that had felt like my safe haven now suddenly cold and unfamiliar.

My knees give out, and I drop to the ground, clutching the camera in trembling hands. The polished floor feels ice-cold against my skin, but I can't focus on that. My thoughts spiral, my vision blurring as memories crash over me like waves.

The stalker incident in my 20s—God, I thought I'd buried that nightmare. The anonymous gifts, the invasive messages, the terrifying feeling of always being watched. And now this. This thing in my hand drags me back to that dark, suffocating place I've tried so hard to escape.

But it's not just my past. It's Ivan's too—or at least the part of me that's still intertwined with his story. Dorian, with his controlling, suffocating presence. His need to own, to dominate, to never let go. The shadows of his actions loom over this moment, blurring the lines between past and present, between what was and what is.

I can't breathe. The walls feel like they're closing in, pressing down on me, trapping me. My fingers curl tightly around the camera, and my body shakes as fear and rage war within me. I feel exposed, vulnerable, like a puppet with strings I can't see. Every inch of this penthouse now feels tainted, every shadow a potential threat.

My mind races, trying to make sense of it. Who put this here? How long has it been watching me? The questions swirl, unanswered, feeding the panic clawing at my chest.

I clutch my head, trying to ground myself, but the overwhelming sense of violation pulls me deeper into the darkness. The luxurious space around me—once a symbol of safety and freedom—now feels like a gilded cage, a beautiful trap with nowhere to hide.

Tears prick at my eyes, but I fight them back. I can't break down, not now. I need to think, to do something, but my body won't move, frozen in place as the weight of the situation crushes me.

My breath comes in short, shallow gasps, and I press a hand to my chest, willing myself to calm down, but the panic only tightens its grip. I feel helpless, like I'm drowning in memories and fear, trapped in a loop I can't escape.

I'm not safe. I'm never safe.

The weight of the camera in my hand feels unbearable, its cold metal surface pressing into my skin like a brand. I stare at it, my vision blurring as my breathing turns shallow and erratic. Every nerve in my body screams at me to move, to do something, but I'm paralyzed, trapped under the crushing weight of fear and violation.

The room feels oppressive now, the once comforting luxury suffocating me. My gaze darts around, suddenly hyperaware of every corner, every shadow. How many more of these things could there be? The thought sends a fresh wave of panic surging through me, my heart pounding painfully in my chest.

My fingers tighten around the camera, trembling as memories of my stalker come flooding back with brutal clarity. The anonymous gifts, the relentless messages, the fear that someone, somewhere, was always watching. I'd thought I'd left that behind, that I'd moved on. But now, it's all rushing back, dragging me down like an anchor pulling me into dark, icy depths.

And then there's Dorian—his shadow looming over me, mixing with my own memories, making it impossible to separate my past from Ivan's. His controlling nature, the way he'd treated Ivan as something to possess rather than a person to cherish. The fear, the suffocation, the overwhelming sense of powerlessness—it all slams into me at once.

I grip my head, my breaths coming in short, shallow gasps as I try to claw my way out of the spiraling panic. This isn't happening. It can't be happening.

But the camera in my hand says otherwise, a cruel, tangible reminder of the reality I'm facing.

I press my back against the bookshelf, clutching the camera tightly, my body trembling with a mix of fear and anger. I feel violated, exposed in the worst possible way, and the familiar bitterness of helplessness twists in my gut.

Tears well up in my eyes, hot and stinging, and I let out a shaky breath, trying to fight them back. I can't break down. I need to think. I need to figure this out. But the more I try to calm myself, the more the fear tightens its grip, suffocating and relentless.

"I'm not safe," I whisper hoarsely, the words slipping out unbidden, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. "I'm never safe."

The admission feels like a crack in my armor, and I hate it—hate that whoever put this camera here has reduced me to this. The anger sparks again, faint but growing, as if trying to fight through the haze of panic.

But even as I try to muster some semblance of resolve, the fear lingers, heavy and suffocating, a shadow that refuses to let me go.