chapter 45

Elena leaned over the bathroom sink, the cold porcelain biting against her palms.

Her stomach twisted again. The nausea had been coming in waves since yesterday, creeping in like a warning she didn't want to hear. She'd blamed stress, blamed the party, blamed anything but the one truth clawing at her insides.

But today, she couldn't lie to herself anymore.

She opened the cabinet slowly, fingers brushing the small paper bag she'd tucked behind the cough syrup. The test inside felt heavier than it should have. Like it knew.

She sat on the closed toilet lid, holding the test with trembling hands, staring at the window as seconds dragged into minutes. Her heart pounded like it wanted to break free.

And then—

Two lines.

Her vision blurred.

She didn't cry. She didn't scream.

She just sat there, frozen in a silence that swallowed her whole.

---

At school, Elena moved like a ghost.

She ignored Liam's texts. Avoided his gaze when he waited for her outside class. But he was patient. He was always patient now—watching, hovering just close enough to be noticed, just far enough to avoid suspicion.

That afternoon, he blocked her near the library doors.

"You've been ignoring me," he said, trying to sound casual. But his jaw was too tight. His voice too sharp.

"I've been busy," she mumbled.

He stepped closer. "You used to talk to me. Before him."

She looked up, her throat tightening. "He's not here."

"That doesn't mean he's gone," Liam said darkly. "Guys like him don't just disappear."

She turned to leave, but his hand gripped her arm—too firm, too fast.

"Elena," he said softly, "I saw you that night. At the party. I know what happened."

Her stomach dropped. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you're not as alone as you think."

The way he said it made her blood run cold.

---

That night, Elena locked every window. Drew the curtains. Her phone buzzed with another message from Liam:

"I'm the only one still here."

She threw it across the bed.

Outside, thunder cracked in the distance, low and rolling. And just as she reached to turn off her lamp, she froze.

A shadow moved across her balcony.

She stayed perfectly still, heart hammering, breath shallow.

The shadow paused. Then slowly stepped away—silent, careful, watching

She crept toward the window and peeked through the curtain.

The space was empty. But on the railing, tucked under a single red ribbon, was a white lily.

Her favorite flower.

And beneath it, another note.

"He's dangerous. Don't trust him."

It wasn't signed.

But she didn't need it to be.