Chapter 222

BRIELLE

The bed felt too big the next morning.

I woke slowly, reaching out instinctively for Damien’s warmth like I had every morning for months. My hand met cold sheets instead. The emptiness hit me like a punch to the chest. He hadn’t come home last night. No late-night text. No quiet footsteps in the early hours. Just silence.

I lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, one hand resting on my rounded belly.

Tears burned behind my eyes before I even sat up. The fight replayed in my head on loop…Damien’s desperate pleas, the raw fear in his voice when he begged me not to see my father, the way the door had slammed behind him like a final punctuation mark.

I had hurt him. Badly.

Even if we fought… he should have come home.

That realization settled heavy in my chest as I carefully pushed myself up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My back ached from the way I’d curled up alone all night. My ankles felt swollen again, and a dull headache throbbed behind my eyes. Pregnancy had made everything more intense, but this morning the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the emotional weight pressing down on me.

I sat on the edge of the bed for a while, rubbing slow circles over my belly, feeling Aurora’s gentle kicks. “Daddy will come back,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “He always does. He’s just… angry right now..”

The words felt hollow even as I said them. Damien was the most protective, devoted man I had ever known. He had barely left my side since the scare. The fact that he hadn’t come home, hadn’t even sent a single text to check on me or the baby, was so unlike him that it made my stomach twist with anxiety.

I forced myself to move. A quick, careful shower helped a little… The warm water easing some of the stiffness in my muscles but my mind wouldn’t stop racing. I kept replaying the fight. The pain in his eyes. The way he had begged me. The way I had still insisted I needed to see my father.

After drying off, I pulled on one of Damien’s oversized shirts. In the kitchen, I tried to keep busy. I fixed a simple breakfast because doing something with my hands felt better than sitting with the silence. Toast with avocado, a small bowl of fresh mango slices, and a cup of ginger tea to settle my stomach.

I carried the plate and tea to the living room and settled carefully on the couch, propping my feet up on the ottoman the way Damien always insisted. The gifts from the park were still scattered across the coffee table, their cheerful colors feeling almost mocking in the quiet morning light. I picked at my food slowly, barely tasting anything. Every bite reminded me of him…how he would have made this for me, how he would have sat beside me and teased me about my cravings while making sure I ate slowly.

The quiet was unbearable.

I set the plate down and picked up my phone with trembling fingers. My thumb hovered over Damien’s name. I pressed call.

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

Straight to voicemail.

I called again. Same thing. The automated message played, his deep, familiar voice saying he couldn’t answer right now. It made my chest tighten painfully.

This was weird. We don’t fight like this. He should have come home.

Even during our worst arguments, Damien had never stayed away overnight. He was intense and protective and sometimes stubborn as hell, but he always came back. He always made sure I was okay. The fact that he hadn’t…not a single text, not a call to check on me  sent a fresh wave of guilt and worry crashing over me.

I typed out a text instead, fingers flying across the screen before I could second-guess myself.

Me: Let’s talk about it when you’re ready. I’m sorry for how I said things last night. I hate that we fought like that. I need to know you’re okay. Please come home. I love you. Both of us do.

I hit send and set the phone down on the cushion beside me, staring at the screen like it might magically light up with his reply. Minutes passed. Nothing.

I rubbed my belly again, feeling Aurora move more actively now, like she was trying to comfort me. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I leaned back against the pillows.

The gifts from the park caught my eye again. I reached for one of the handwritten notes, reading it without really seeing the words. Then another. Anything to distract myself from the phone that refused to ring and the heavy silence pressing in from all sides.

The morning dragged on slowly. I tried to read, tried to watch something mindless on TV, tried to focus on anything other than the fight. But every few minutes my eyes drifted back to my phone. Still nothing.

I sent another text, shorter this time.

Me: I’m worried about you. Please just let me know you’re safe.

No response.

The guilt gnawed at me harder with every passing hour. I had pushed him too far. I had chosen my need for closure with my father over his fear and his love, and now he was out there somewhere, hurting because of me.

I curled up on the couch, pulling a blanket over me, and closed my eyes.

I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I just wanted to rest my eyes for a minute, to escape the heavy guilt and worry that had settled like a stone in my chest. But exhaustion from the fight, from the pregnancy, from the emotional rollercoaster of the day pulled me under faster than I expected.

I didn’t know how long I slept. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. Time felt blurry in the fog of pregnancy fatigue and heartbreak.

A loud, shrill ring from my phone jolted me awake.

My heart leaped into my throat as I fumbled for the device on the coffee table, nearly knocking over a half-empty glass of water in the process. Damien. It had to be him. He had finally calmed down. He was calling to come home, or at least to tell me he was okay. Relief flooded through me so fast it made me dizzy.

I answered without even looking at the screen, my voice shaky with hope and leftover tears.

“Damien? Thank God. I’m so sorry about earlier. Please come home. We can talk. I—”

A strange, high-pitched giggle cut me off.

“Hiiiiiii… my favorite author.”

The voice was light, almost playful, but there was something off about it. Too sweet. Too breathy. Like someone trying too hard to sound friendly. It sent an immediate chill down my spine.

I pulled the phone away from my ear for a second, checking the screen. Private number.

My stomach twisted. Not Damien.

“Who… who is this?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady even as my pulse raced.

The person on the other end giggled again — a soft, almost childish sound that made my skin crawl.

“You don’t know me yet, but I know you so well, Brielle. I’ve read The Veiled Heart so many times. Over and over. Your words… they speak to me. They understand me. You understand what it’s like to be trapped by the Shadow King, don’t you?”

My breath caught. The Shadow King. The note. The white rose.

I sat up straighter on the couch, one hand instinctively moving to my belly. “I think you have the wrong number. I’m going to hang up now.”

“Wait!” The voice sharpened, still oddly cheerful. “I sent something to you. Checkkkkkk. You’ll see. It’s important. For your freedom.”

The call dropped abruptly.

Silence filled the room again.

My hands were shaking as I lowered the phone and opened my messages. There was a new multimedia message from the same private number.

I hesitated, thumb hovering over the notification. Every instinct screamed at me not to open it. But the fear of not knowing was worse.

I tapped it.

The image loaded slowly.

It was Damien.

My heart dropped like a stone.

He was in what looked like a dimly lit room, wrists bound in front of him with thick rope, sitting on a chair. His shirt was rumpled, hair messy, a dark bruise forming on his jaw. His eyes were open…furious, defiant staring straight at the camera like he was daring whoever took the photo to try something. Behind him, the wall had faint writing scrawled in what looked like red marker.

The caption underneath the photo, in the same elegant, looping handwriting from the note earlier, read:

The Shadow King has been captured. Makes sense for a story that was never just fiction, right? The villain always falls when the light decides it’s time. Don’t worry, Brielle. I’m setting you free. Soon you’ll thank me.