Chapter 3

The cold water cascades over me, the icy droplets biting into my skin, soaking through my clothes, and chilling me to the bone. The sharp chill of the bathroom tiles against my legs seeps deeper, anchoring me in this numbing, unbearable moment. Every breath feels labored, shallow, and my sobs echo through the large, empty space, ricocheting off the sterile walls. The sound of my cries mingles with the relentless patter of the water, drowning everything else out, save for the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears—a deafening reminder of the pain that refuses to leave.

I sit curled on the bathroom floor, my knees pulled tight to my chest, trying to make myself smaller as if I can shrink away from the torment clawing at my insides. One hand rests against my knees, separating my chin from pressing into them, while the other claws desperately at the floor. My fingers scrape against the tiles, futilely trying to find something solid to hold onto, something to ground me against the storm raging in my head.

This pain is unlike anything I’ve ever known. It’s not just physical; it’s deeper, sharper—a raw ache that feels like it’s tearing me apart from the inside. Grief, true grief, is a cruel, foreign thing. I thought I understood loss before—I’ve known death, seen people I know leave this world—but none of them were him. None of them made my chest feel like it was being crushed by an invisible weight, or my stomach twist with this much hollow, wrenching despair.

It’s a new world I’ve stumbled into, one filled with agony and dismay, one that drowns me relentlessly with no hope of resurfacing.

Rowan is dead.

And some imposter is sitting in his place.

The thought sends another wave of anguish through me, sharp and unrelenting, like a knife being twisted in an already open wound. My hands shake, and I press my forehead against my knees, the cold water running down my face mixing with the hot, salty tears that refuse to stop falling.

Why? How? Since when?

How could no one else see it? How could nobody, not even his parents, realize the truth? How can they look at that man and call him Rowan?

I try to convince myself that I’m overreacting. That maybe this pain is clouding my judgment. After all, he stopped communicating with me years ago—maybe time has just made me a stranger to him. But deep down, I know I’m not wrong. I’m not a fool.

I’ve always been perceptive, clever even, ever since I was a child. I’m not saying it to brag—it’s simply a fact. My mind has never let me fall into delusions, has never allowed me to believe in fantasies or the impossible. And after meeting Zalie and then Rowan, life forced me to develop a rational, logical mind. That clarity has guided me through countless difficult situations. But now? Now, I hate it.

Because it won’t let me dismiss what I know in my gut to be true.

Why else would I be here, locked in this bathroom, weeping until my body aches, mourning the death of my closest friend? Why else would I spend days in this cold, dark space, instead of facing the world or trying to expose the truth?

Because I know.

The logical thing to do is gather evidence, piece together the facts. That’s what my mind keeps telling me. But my heart? My heart wants none of it. I know what I’ll do the moment I find out why this has happened—despite the rational path, despite the truth I’ll uncover.

I won’t stop.

Whoever that man is, whoever had the audacity to steal Rowan’s identity, doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as the rest of us. Whoever is heartless enough to claim his life, his name, his place—they’re better off dead.

I close my burning eyes and raise a trembling hand to my face, trying to wipe away the water streaming down, but it’s useless. The shower is still running, the icy droplets pelting against my skin relentlessly. My fingers feel heavy, sluggish, like they’re weighted down by something far more than exhaustion. How long have I been like this? Four days? Five? A week? I can’t remember anymore. Time feels meaningless, slipping through my fingers like water, moving in a blur that makes it impossible to hold on to anything solid.

The air in the bathroom is cold, the scent of damp tiles and faint soap lingering, but I barely notice. The chill from the water seeps into my bones, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest. Is this what grief feels like? This suffocating emptiness? This relentless, gnawing pain? I press my face to my knees, pulling myself tighter into a ball as tears force their way out again, hot and uncontrollable, mixing with the icy water cascading down my face.

I don’t know how long I sit there, lost in this endless cycle of anguish. Time ticks by so agonizingly slowly that it feels like every second drags me further into the depths. Yet, at the same time, it’s too fast—blurring past in a way that makes everything feel insignificant. The world itself seems hollow, as if it’s lost its meaning, and I’m left drifting through it, too broken to care.

Eventually, I manage to pull myself up, though my body protests every movement. My legs feel like lead, and my arms shake as I twist the shower knob off. The sudden silence is deafening, broken only by the soft drip of water from the showerhead and the shallow gasps of my uneven breaths. I wrap myself in my robe, tying the knot lazily, my fingers fumbling against the damp fabric. It’s loose, but I can’t bring myself to care.

I’m too weak to find clothes, too tired to do anything but shuffle forward, leaving wet footprints on the cold tiles. The robe clings to my skin, and the chill makes my body tremble, but even that discomfort feels distant, like a whisper compared to the pain crushing my chest. The anguish is overwhelming, a river of sorrow that refuses to stop, threatening to drown me. And yet, there’s something disturbingly comforting about it. This pain is all I have left now.

Suddenly, the sharp, shrill sound of my alarm pierces the silence, startling me out of my fog. My heart leaps, and for a moment, I just stand there, frozen, staring blankly at the door. Someone is in my house.

The realization sends a jolt through me, cutting through the haze of grief like a lightning strike. This is a new mansion, the one I had just finished building before leaving for treatment. I haven’t even slept here yet, not a single night since furnishing it. No one knows about it except Zalie. Not even Rowan.

Rowan hated the idea of me living outside the apartment he bought for me. “For your safety,” he’d said. The memory of his voice twists the knife in my chest, but I force myself to focus. This can’t be Zalie—she doesn’t know I’m back yet. So what does this mean?

Did he notice? Did he figure out that I know the truth? That I know who he really is? My mind races, each thought darker than the last. Did he send someone to silence me? To annihilate me and keep his secret?

My heart pounds against my ribs, each beat so loud and erratic it feels like it might burst. Sweat beads on my forehead, trickling down the side of my face, mingling with the remnants of the shower water. My hands tremble violently as I move, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

I quickly fetch my gun and dagger from the secret compartment in my bed, my fingers fumbling over the cool metal. The weight of it brings back memories, but I clutch them tightly and make my way downstairs, each step as silent as I can manage. My breathing is shallow, barely audible over the pounding in my ears. My whole body is trembling—fear coursing through every nerve—but I refuse to back down.

I’ve never been the type to give up without a fight.

As I creep toward the living room, the adrenaline rushing through me sharpens my senses. The faint smell of dust and wood polish lingers in the air, mingling with the subtle metallic tang of the dagger in my hand. My bare feet brush against the smooth, cool floor, and every sound—every creak, every rustle—feels amplified.

Then I hear it.

Voices.

Familiar voices.

The sound hits me like a wave, washing over the fear and panic in an instant. I stop dead in my tracks, my breath catching as recognition dawns. My grip on the dagger loosens, and the tension in my chest eases, replaced by a rush of relief so overwhelming it makes my knees weak.

I let out a shaky sigh, the sound soft and unsteady, as the realization settles in. I’m safe.