Break Off
I woke with a start, heart pounding, disoriented for a moment by the unfamiliar ceiling above me.
Then it hit me. The soft rise and fall of my mother’s breathing beside me. Her arm draped protectively over my waist. The scent of her floral shampoo. I was in her room, not mine.
The events of the night before came flooding back—like icy water pouring into my chest. The man in my room. The ring. The way the shadows had clung to him like armor. And how he’d vanished without a trace.
My throat was dry again. My skin damp with cold sweat.
I didn’t move. Not yet. I listened for any sound beyond the slow tick of the clock in the hallway. Silence. The kind that settled thick and unnatural. Too quiet.
Carefully, I lifted her arm and slipped out of bed. I moved slowly, quietly, not wanting to wake her. She needed rest. Hell, I needed rest. But more than anything, I needed answers.
I padded across the marble floor, opened her door, and stepped out into the hallway, still wrapped in the blanket from last night. My steps were soft against the runner rug as I made my way back to my bedroom.
It looked exactly the same. Neat. Luxurious. Untouched.
But I felt different inside it.
I stood in the doorway for a full minute, staring at the spot where the man had been. My chest tightened again, the image of him seared into my memory. Cloaked. Motionless. Holding a ring that did not belong in this timeline.
My father’s ring.
What the hell was happening?
First, I’d thought I saw Uncle Garry. Then this? Was I losing it? Breaking down slowly under the pressure of my bloodline, my secrets, the expectations clawing at my back?
I dropped the blanket onto the floor, walked into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.
Maybe hot water could wash off this creeping paranoia. Maybe it could scald the memory off my skin.
Steam filled the bathroom fast. I let it wrap around me before stepping under the stream, letting it hit my back and run down my arms like a waterfall.
My thoughts kept circling. Every clue, every whisper, every gut-deep instinct I had.
I couldn’t tell Hardin. He’d go full-scorched-earth. And right now, the last thing I needed was to worry him—or tip off whoever was playing this sick game with me.
I stepped out, wrapped myself in a towel, and stood in front of the mirror. My reflection looked pale, but sharp. Focused. A girl on the edge of something.
Something was coming.
I could feel it vibrating beneath the surface of everything.
I dressed in a crisp white pantsuit—sleek, structured, elegant. My armor for the day. Pearl buttons, gold earrings, no-nonsense heels. I pulled my hair back into a clean twist, applied some lipstick, and stared myself down.
No fear.
No weakness.
Downstairs, the scent of coffee and eggs wafted through the air. I almost turned back. I wasn’t in the mood for breakfast, especially not under watchful eyes.
But as I descended the marble staircase, I spotted them both at the table.
My mother.
And my grandfather.
They were waiting for me.
Both looked up as I entered.
My mother’s face was still drawn with exhaustion, but her eyes tracked every movement I made, full of worry. Grandpa’s mouth was set in a hard line, and I could feel the tension coiling beneath his skin, like a lion waiting to pounce.
I tried to walk past them, straight for the door.
“Sit,” my mother said gently, but firmly.
I turned to her. “I have somewhere—”
“Sit,” she repeated. “Please. Just for a few minutes.”
I hesitated. My instincts screamed to run. To get moving. To do something. But I sighed, turned back, and slid into a chair.
A maid placed a plate in front of me, but I didn’t touch it.
The silence that followed wasn’t tense.
It wasn’t peaceful either.
It was heavy. Like the pause before a confession.
I took a slow sip of orange juice, waiting.
Waiting for one of them to crack.
My grandfather cut a piece of toast with unnecessary force, while my mother played with the edge of her napkin, twisting it around her fingers.
And then—
“I think the Richards are behind this,” my mother said quietly.
I froze.
My fork clinked against the plate. Slowly, I turned to face her fully.
“What?” I said.
She looked at me, face pale but voice steady. “I think the Richards are behind what happened last night. And I think... I think you should consider breaking things off with Hardin.”
The words hit like a punch to the chest.
“What?” I breathed again, louder this time. My chair scraped back slightly as I straightened.
Grandpa looked down at his plate, not interrupting.
My mother met my gaze. “I know how much you care about him. I know this isn’t what you want to hear. But something is going on, Ariana. This isn’t the first threat. And the closer you get to him, the more vulnerable you become.”
“You think Hardin did this?” My voice shook, from fury or heartbreak I wasn’t sure. “He wouldn’t hurt me. You know that.”
“I’m not saying it’s him,” she said quickly. “But his family. The Richards are powerful. Strategic. If someone wanted to send a message... this would be how.”
“No,” I said firmly, rising from my seat. “No. You don’t get to point fingers without proof.”
Her eyes filled with emotion. “I’m not pointing fingers, honey. I’m protecting my daughter.”
I clenched my fists, breathing hard. My stomach churned. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. I looked to Grandpa.
“I don’t trust coincidences,” he said simply. “And there are too many circling your life right now.”
I turned away, staring out the wide windows that overlooked the garden.
The same garden I’d once played in as a child. The same one that now felt like it could be hiding a hundred secrets in every bush.
“She loves him,” Grandpa continued, voice low. “But love can be dangerous when you don’t know who’s behind the curtain pulling the strings.”
“I trust him,” I said through gritted teeth. “And I’m not ending anything based on some baseless theory.”
My mother stood then, walked to me, and placed a hand on my arm.
“I’m not asking you to stop loving him,” she said. “I’m asking you to be safe. To think about what’s happening.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
My grandfather’s expression didn’t change.
“I think you should break things off with Hardin,” she said again.
“You think walking away from him will fix this? You think cutting off the only man who’s ever actually protected me—loved me—will make me less of a target?”
“I think walking away might save your life.” she said.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No. You’re wrong. You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I do,” she said quietly. “And I’m asking it because I love you.”
My grandfather finally spoke. “This isn’t just about love anymore, Ariana. It’s about war. And survival.”
I looked between them, my breath coming fast.
Everything in me wanted to scream. To slam my fists into the table. To rip open the past and force them to see what I did.
But all I could say was—
“I can’t.”
“You must.”
“No.”
Then I turned and walked out.
But the silence I left behind felt more final than any goodbye.
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