She woke cold. Blankets twisted around her waist. Skin bare. Breath sharp.

Light slit through the blinds in pale beams, cutting the room into ribbons. Her throat was dry. Her hair clung to her face, damp with sweat.

She was naked. She turned slowly to her side and saw him.

Jordan lay on his stomach, one arm flung across the pillow, back rising and falling. His lips were parted slightly in sleep. The sheets rode low on his hips.

Something about the scene felt off. Unaligned. She pulled the blanket tighter around her body.

She couldn't remember why she was naked. She swallowed.

Then nudged him. "Jordan?"

He grumbled, stretched and turned with a smile. That smile was smug, satisfied and definitely clueless. She could easily see it.

"Wow," he said. "You were on fire last night."

Her pulse skipped. "What?"

Jordan laughed, like she was playing dumb. "What do you mean, what? After dinner you came out in that robe barely tied, might I add, where you climbed onto my lap like a whole fantasy. Said you didn't want to lose me. Said you were ready to stop being... what's the word? Self-destructive." He smirked. "Honestly? It was hot. And kind of interesting. I liked it."

She stared at him. A noise flickered in the back of her throat. She didn't remember any of it. Not the dinner. Not the robe. Not the sex. Not the confessions. Nothing. "Oh."

"You said..." He yawned. "You didn't want to keep making stupid decisions. That you'd do better. I was thrilled by all of it."

Her stomach lurched.

Jordan brushed her arm. "Honestly, it was kind of moving. Even for you."

She didn't reply. She nodded slowly. Her pulse thudded in her throat.

That's what it meant. That's what the reflection was smiling about. You're welcome.

She rose from bed without another word, the sheet falling away. The apartment felt sharper that morning — too clean, too clinical. The soft golden light exposed every untouched corner. Their bedroom was modern and perfect with its smooth white walls, abstract art framed in black and a glass closet door reflecting her into a woman she didn't recognize anymore. Even the hardwood floors felt too cold under her soles.

She dragged herself into the bathroom. The tiles chilled her skin. Her reflection was waiting.

The other her stood there. All pale, pristine, smirking. Her hair was perfect. Her eyes gleamed like glass. She gave a devilish shrug. A half-smile, knowing. Possessive.

You're welcome, she mouthed. No sound. Just that damn voice in her mind, smooth and heavy like wet velvet.

Relly backed away from the mirror and turned toward the tub.

She lowered herself in slowly, still dry. The cold porcelain calmed her skin. She closed her eyes, let her head rest on the back of the tub.

For a moment, it was quiet. Then the faucet hissed.

She didn't remember turning it on.

Water dripped, then poured. The tub began to fill. She tried to rise. Her limbs wouldn't move.

The water climbed higher — her knees, her ribs, her chin. She opened her mouth to scream and water flooded in. She kicked. She thrashed. The surface was right there, but every time she reached, something pulled her back down. Not a hand. Not a rope. Just weight. Like her soul had become cement.

She saw herself in the water.

But it wasn't her. It was the other her. Smiling beneath the surface.

Her mouth moved.

Stay down.

Relly's lungs burned. Her hands clawed at nothing. Blackness swallowed her.

Then—

Her back arched. She gasped.

She was dry. In the tub. No water. No sound.

Just her. Shaking, skin clammy and heart pounding.

She staggered out. Her towel slipped. She barely noticed. It didn't matter.

She put on her clothes mechanically — black jeans, too tight across the waist; a navy button-down, slightly wrinkled. Her coat was dark gray, wool, oversized. She pulled it tight like armor. Her boots were scuffed, but sturdy. Her bag hung off her shoulder like dead weight. Everything clung wrong to her body, like borrowed skin.

She left the apartment for work without speaking.

The sky was washed out. Everything looked pale. Noisy. She took a shared cab, seeing how the streets were packed. Philly traffic, sticky with horn blares and exhaust. It made her wish she took the train instead but she didn't trust her reflection not to do something there.

At Hope Haven, the building loomed like a mouth waiting to swallow her whole. The exterior was cracked in places where the blue paint had faded and letters of the slogan were peeling off. She walked fast. Her boots clapped hard against the tiles. There was an early morning meeting today and she didn't want to be late.

The office was busy with the sound of chairs scraping linoleum, printers humming and murmured voices in corners. She walked through it all like a ghost. Fluorescent lights buzzed. The ceiling fans spun half-heartedly.

The meeting room was shaped like a long box and smelled like paper and stress. It had fluorescent lights above, a cheap wooden table in the middle and faded motivational posters still hanging on the walls like a cruel joke. Every Child Deserves a Future curled at the edges.

Her seat was near the edge of the table, an old wooden one scarred with pen scratches and years of use. Cheap plastic chairs lined its sides. A chipped jug of water sat at the center, half-empty.

The meeting had already started and Jerry was already speaking. He was wearing a striped shirt tucked too tightly into his pants. His voice was nasal, smug, too loud. He wore a navy-blue shirt that clung to his round stomach, and gold-rimmed glasses that always slid too far down his nose. His belt was one hole too far and his black shoes were too shiny, the fake kind that creaked when he shifted his weight. His cologne burned her nose. Most of all, his face was red with self-importance.

"And of course, I ran the final numbers myself," he was saying, "budget alignment across Q3 and Q4— seamless."

Relly stilled. Her hands froze over her notepad. He didn't do the budget.

She did. 

Every cell. Every chart. Every column of breakdown and adjustment. He never touched it.

She swallowed. "Actually—"

Her voice came out small. She cleared her throat.

But Jerry cut her off. "Relly assisted with the formatting, of course. She's meticulous like that. Always on top of the admin side."

Her mouth hung open. A cold flush slid down her spine.

The CEO, Alexa Monroe, a statuesque woman in a royal blue peplum blouse and braided hair twisted into a crown, nodded vaguely as she scrolled through her iPad. No one was looking at Relly.

She wasn't even there. The room felt lopsided. Tilted. Her hands started to shake.

Then—

Buzzing. In her ears. Her throat. Her bones. Not just the lights now. Inside her.

In her head.

Her vision narrowed. She saw it.

The cabinet glass. Her reflection.

It moved first. Too fast. It was smiling. But not sweetly.

Hungry.

Predatory.

Something crawled behind her eyes. Her throat closed. Her heart thumped once—twice—

Her hand spasmed on the desk.

A flicker.

A snap.

Then everything went still.

She exhaled.

Her vision began to blur at the edges.

The reflection from the glass panel on the cabinet across the room, it smiled.

Too early. Too soon. Too wide.

"No," she whispered.

Someone looked at her.

She felt it bubbling. Roaring. Stretching inside her bones.

Her hand twitched.

Then her whole body stiffened—

Her forehead slammed into the table. Hard.

***

Author's note.  

I hope we are having a pretty pleasant day.

If you aren't, tell me about it in the comment section. My amazing readers and I would be the perfect support group that you need to pull through.

Till then......

Xoxo 

Jasmine Stars