Chapter 1

Carter and I have been together for five years. We never had actual sex.

During our most intimate moments, he would only ever slip a dark Violet Pearl deep inside of me. I honestly thought it was his way of cherishing me.

Until tonight.

I woke up totally naked to find a phone set up on the bed, its lens glaring right between my thighs, with a red "LIVE" icon blinking on the screen.

[The pearl matures Oct 31. Five years of cultivation!] the chat kept scrolling.

I checked the screen on my phone.

It’s October 30.

——

The nightmare had actually started with a phone call.

"Is Carter with you?" Mia didn't say hello. Her breath hitched over the receiver.

"No. He said he had a meeting——"

"He's here, Chloe." Background noise shuffled heavily on her end. "At our building. He's pitching a raw material supply deal to the executives."

I gripped the edge of my desk. We manufactured women's skincare. Carter imported exotic jewelry and spices.

"That doesn't make sense."

"Nothing makes sense. He brought samples. Chloe, I saw the manifest. His business isn't—"

A sharp thud echoed over the line.

"Mia?"

Dead air.

I pulled the phone away, dialed her right back, and got voicemail.

That night, the shower ran behind the closed bathroom door. Steam curled under the gap.

Carter’s phone sat on the coffee table.

I never checked his things. Five years of trust built a solid foundation. But Mia hadn’t answered a single text all afternoon, and her desk remained empty before I left the building.

My hands shook as I picked up the device. I typed in his usual passcode.

Standard home screen. Apps, weather, sports. Nothing.

I exhaled, feeling guilty. I went to set it down, but my thumb slipped against the bezel, swiping a fraction too far.

The screen glitched. The bright wallpaper dissolved into a secondary, hidden black interface. A single, encrypted gallery app sat in the dead center.

I tapped it.

Folders populated the screen. Thousands of them.

My throat closed. I clicked the top folder. Medical charts. Gynecological scans. Clinical angles. My name sat at the top of every document.

Right below it, a master folder named The Pearl Project.

The thumbnail was a high-resolution shot of a woman splayed out, unconscious on white sheets.

It was me.

The water stopped. The bathroom door handle clicked.

My thumb hammered the power button. I tossed the device back onto the table, grabbed a magazine off the rack, and flipped it open.

Carter stepped out, a towel slung low on his hips. He padded across the rug and wrapped his arms around me from behind.

He buried his face in my neck, inhaling deeply.

"Smell nice tonight," he murmured against my skin.

I forced a smile, lifting my head. My reflection caught his in the dark windowpane opposite us.

His eyes were dead-locked on that phone.

Then, the tension broke.

He pulled away with a soft kiss to my temple and headed for the kitchen. A minute later, he returned, pressing a warm mug into my hands.

"Drink up, babe. You look exhausted," he said gently.

It was warm milk. For five years, he had never missed this routine. The thoughtful, perfect boyfriend ensuring I got a good night's sleep. I drained the mug under his watchful gaze, the liquid tasting the exact same as it always did.

The next morning, I woke up with a skull full of wet concrete. I had slept completely dead to the world.

The bed was empty. The apartment was completely silent.

I sat up, rubbing my temples. The floor lamp next to the sofa was pushed back three inches. The edge of the rug folded over itself. Someone had moved things around during the night.

Paranoia screaming in my ears, I pulled out my phone, blindly snapped a wide-angle photo of the living room, grabbed my coat, and practically ran out the door.

"Mia went on indefinite leave this morning," HR announced the second I sat at my desk. "Severe mental breakdown."

No. Mia never took sick days. She was a workaholic.

I slumped in my chair and opened my camera roll to stop my hands from shaking. The photo from the apartment stared back at me. I pinched the screen, zooming in on the shadows near the kitchen.

The door glass caught something. Focus softened, then sharpened.

A pair of eyes.

A man standing in the narrow blind spot behind my kitchen counter, watching the room where I slept.

Suddenly, a heavy hand slammed down on my shoulder.

I shrieked.

The phone slipped from my sweaty fingers, clattering onto the floor and skidding straight under the desk of the colleague opposite my cubicle.

I leaned down, reaching out to grab it, but a pair of highly polished dress shoes stepped into my view, blocking my path.

Vance, my department manager, stood over me. His jaw was set tight.

"Daydreaming on company time, Chloe?"

I froze, pulling my hand back. "Sorry, Vance. I was just—"

I cut myself off.

As I looked up, I caught Vance staring right past me, making direct eye contact with the colleague sitting just across my partition. They exchanged a single, deliberate nod. No words. Just a silent, chilling understanding.

Noticing my gaze, Vance instantly snapped his attention back down to me.

His expression smoothed over, turning cold.

"Don't let me catch you doing this again."

But as he glared at me, the air in my lungs turned to ice.

The harsh slope of his brow. The slight, unique asymmetry of his left eyelid.

They were the exact same eyes from that glass reflection in my apartment.

He turned on his heel and walked toward his office.

My pulse roared in my ears.

What the hell was going on? Why was my boss in my apartment? Why did he and my coworker just nod at each other like they were acting out a script?

"Hey, Chloe. What are you zoning out for? Your phone."

My coworker across the desk awkwardly picked up my device and held it out to me.

"Thanks," I muttered, snatching it from his hand, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I unlocked the screen, swiping quickly back to the zoomed-in picture to be absolutely sure. I needed proof.

I stared at the image.

The reflection off the door glass was completely blank.

The eyes were gone.