The rain had not stopped since morning. It was as if the heavens had decided to wash the streets clean, yet every droplet seemed to make the town feel heavier instead of pure. The pavement outside Damien’s apartment glistened with the sheen of wet stone, the kind of quiet gloss that made the world look beautiful and dangerous in the same breath.Damien stood at the window, a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand, watching as a lone figure in a dark coat crossed the street. His jaw tightened—not because of who the figure was, but because of what this rain always reminded him of: the night his brother disappeared. The night Clara Sterling’s name first became more than just a name in his mind.He hadn’t told her everything yet. Not even close.Behind him, the sound of footsteps broke his trance. Clara emerged from the hallway, wrapped in one of his shirts like she had forgotten she was wearing it. Her hair, still damp from her shower, clung to her cheek, and her bare feet padded softly

The rain came down in sheets that night, swallowing Willow Creek in a haze of silver and shadow. Streetlights flickered like dying candles, casting the sidewalks in trembling pools of gold. Every drop felt like a countdown, every gust of wind a warning.Clara stood in the middle of her living room, drenched from the short run from Damien’s car to her front door. She didn’t bother changing out of her wet clothes. The damp seeped into her bones, but it was the cold from within that left her shivering.Damien had left without another word—just that look. That look that said he knew. That he was no longer chasing shadows… he was standing in one. Hers.She pressed her palm to her chest, as if she could slow the pounding there. But the truth was out now—at least part of it. And it terrified her. Not because she feared Damien Creed’s judgment, but because of what would happen if he decided the truth was too dangerous to keep breathing.The sound of rain filled the silence until it almost see

The night was no longer silent.It looked silent, yes—the streets of Wynthorne lay under the sleepy hush of winter, every lamppost casting a hazy halo against the drifting snow—but under that quiet, Clara could hear the echo of footsteps. Steady, deliberate, and far too familiar.She didn’t turn. Not yet. She’d learned long ago that turning too quickly could make you prey.Her breath rose in clouds before her, a fragile mist that felt too loud in the emptiness. Somewhere behind her, Damien was following. She didn’t need to see him to know. She could feel him—the weight of his presence was heavier than the snow pressing against the rooftops.She’d left the Creed manor hours ago, after their last argument had ended not in resolution but in dangerous silence. Words had been too sharp, too unsteady, and she had chosen to leave before either of them said something they couldn’t undo. She had walked aimlessly at first, letting her boots carve winding paths through the snow, until she found

The rain had not stopped since the night before, and now it fell in a steady, mournful sheet against the windows of the Creed estate. Clara sat at the edge of Damien’s desk, her fingers curled around the edge of the polished wood, her pulse loud in her ears. Every tick of the grandfather clock in the corner seemed to stretch time, making the air between them heavy with things unsaid.Damien stood by the window, shoulders squared but his hand clenched around a glass of untouched whiskey. His gaze was fixed on the storm outside, but she knew he wasn’t watching the rain — he was hiding in it.“You have to tell me what’s going on,” Clara said at last, her voice low but unyielding. “I’m not walking blind into whatever you’re planning. I can’t.”His jaw tightened, but he didn’t turn. “Some truths don’t just cut,” he murmured, “they take pieces of you when they come out.”She rose from the desk and moved toward him, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. “Then let them take pieces of me, Dami

The storm had passed in the night, but the morning carried its ghost. The air was heavy, damp, and cold enough to seep into the bones, as though the rain had left behind a residue of unease. Clara sat by her bedroom window, staring at the street below where puddles reflected a dull, overcast sky. She had not slept—sleep had become an elusive luxury, replaced by the constant hum of thoughts circling her like restless crows.Damien’s words from the night before still haunted her."You’re not ready for the truth yet."He had said it with the sort of finality that made her wonder if knowing would kill her faster than ignorance.But Clara was past the point of retreat. She had followed too many shadows, peeled back too many lies. The mystery of her mother’s disappearance, the whispers about her own name, and the feeling that something in this town was constantly watching her—all of it had piled into an unbearable weight.Her phone buzzed, startling her from her thoughts.Unknown Number: Th