Amelia didn't leave her room the next morning.
She sat on the edge of her bed, still in yesterday's clothes, staring at the window. The sun had risen hours ago. The shadows were gone. The street below was filled with ordinary things—a mailman, a jogger, a car backing out of a driveway.
No tall figure in dark clothes. No silent watcher.
She should have felt relieved but she didn't.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She ignored it. It buzzed again. Then a third time.
Finally, she picked it up.
Unknown Number: Did you sleep well?
Amelia's blood went cold.
She typed back: Who is this?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Unknown Number: Someone who's been waiting a long time.
She threw the phone onto the bed like it had burned her.
Her hands were shaking. She pressed them between her knees and forced herself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
It's nothing, she told herself. A wrong number. A prank.
But she didn't believe it.
She walked to the window—slowly this time, not afraid but cautious—and looked down at the street.
Empty.
She checked the lock. Still tight.
Then she turned away, pulled open her closet, and chose a dress at random. She needed to get out. Needed to walk. Needed to prove to herself that the world was still ordinary.
She was halfway down the stairs when her father's voice stopped her.
"Amelia. We need to talk."
Something in his tone made her pause. He was sitting at the dining table, a newspaper in front of him that he wasn't reading. His hands were flat on the wood.
"About what?" she asked.
He didn't answer immediately. He looked at her—really looked at her—and for the first time, she saw something in his eyes she couldn't name.
Fear? Guilt?
"Sit down," he said.
She didn't move. "Dad. What's going on?"
He pulled an envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table. The paper was thick. Expensive. Her name was written across the front in handwriting she didn't recognize.
"Open it," he said.
Amelia walked to the table, her legs unsteady. She picked up the envelope, broke the seal, and pulled out the contents.
A contract.
Her name. Another name. A date.
She read it once. Twice. A third time, because the words didn't make sense.
"What is this?"
"Your marriage contract."
The room tilted. Amelia gripped the edge of the table. "I'm not—you can't be serious."
"I'm completely serious."
"To who?"
Her father didn't answer. He just nodded toward the door.
Amelia turned.
A man stood in the doorway. Tall. Dark hair. Eyes that had already found hers and refused to let go.
She knew him.
Not from memory. From last night. From the street below her window. From the shadow that had walked toward her while she watched in horror.
"Hello, Amelia," he said.
His voice was low. Calm. Certain.
"I'm Ethan Hayes. Your future husband."