5: Game Of Shadows

Jax Harper

“Tessa Morris.”

I murmur her name for the umpteenth time as if rehearsing for a show. It's been two long hours since Charlotte innocently spilled her name, and it's still reverberating, drumming in my ears like rain platters on the roof. 

My fingers subconsciously zoom in and out of her photo, accustomed to the exercise. Just as nonchalant as she is about anything, her social media handles are equally suffering. 

It's a miracle seeing a photo of her in a beige-colored dress, her lips are cherry as ever, she's always been all shades of perfection. She's holding a burnt bread with a small pout; I bet her mum put her up for the ‘Family's Bakery commercial. 

“Sir,” my driver's voice interrupted me. “The jet is ready.” 

I lock my phone, keeping my new obsession private. The drink Charlotte had poured me is still untouched, same as the small slice of cake on the foil. 

The plan was to relax over brunch while the team set up the process. I'm based in Belgravia, but I have vast luxury properties scattered across the globe. Pumping my money into real estate just as I do the weird paintings. 

“Cancel.” 

“Sir?” He stutters. “I mean, the trip back home.” 

“Need I say more?” I don't spare him a glance. “Go away.” 

His gentle steps dissipate in seconds. Alone, I resume zooming in and out and keeping that weird smirk that screams danger. 

*** *** 

‘Go!’

Blood. 

The heavy whoosh of blood splashes on the bus’ window, forms a crimson arc and washes down in thick, terrifying drops. 

The loud thud of a heart beating hard against the cavity.

I jolt upward with the speed of light, arms sprawled as I fight for my life. Beads of sweat pour down my bare chest, my breath is caught in my throat, I e… 

My nightmares. 

It's more vivid than I remember. 

I palm my flushed face as I try to steady my ragged breath. The fear embedded in each thick goosebumps won't go away anytime soon. 

The symptoms will eventually fade away, but the scar never does. 

I hit the shower. Icy and heavy, just the perfect dose for my troubles. The water washes down my nakedness just as the blood streams down the window in my dream until it's gone, leaving a light red map. 

Done with a quick scrub, I stroll out and pull out a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. No need for a glass, greedy slurps will do the magic. 

My phone beeps. 

The first thing that grabs my attention is Tessa's photo displayed on my screen. I had slept off fantasizing. 

Just as she effortlessly steals my time, I forget about the text and resume stalking her online. This time, I go to Alistair, the cleaning company she works for. 

Her name, details, and headshot are stamped on the front page alongside eight other workers. 

“Tessa Morris.” 

Her name is soft on my lips. 

Bored, with no interest in a lifetime with any lady, I catfish. The ladies I've messed around with never cared about my identity so long as bucks of cash wads their butts. 

An old photo pops up on my screen. ‘Tessa Morris calls off her wedding a night before after her darling groom bangs his best man!’ 

Bloody heck!

The media never forgets.

I zoom in on the random photo of her in a wedding dress. It's like the one she took during the fitting. No wonder I couldn't find anything of her in her media handles. 

How did she survive this turmoil? Memories of her from earlier filter in. Now, I get the missing piece I couldn't figure out earlier. She’s broken. 

She deserves peace, comfort, and a castle. 

Morning comes soon enough. Dressed in a casual top and black pants, I leave the house. On seeing me, the driver hurries to the car. 

“Keys.” 

Shocked, he dumps it in my palm and watches me in awe. 

‘I need your services immediately. Eastern Estate. Send Tessa Morris, I'll double the price. - Jax Harper.’ 

After dropping a message directly to her boss, I drive out. Tessa's address is on my map. The red arrow navigates me through the bustling city. 

I arrive just as she steps out. She's wearing a pair of brown ankle boots, with loose jeans and black sleeves. Her fashion sense is especially for the back of magazines, but her shimmery beauty saves her every damn time.

The neighborhood is quiet. Certain that no one is watching, I take the key from beneath the rug and get in. 

“What the hell.” I scoff. 

Her house is a mess. Not stinking, just nothing like a cleaner’s house should be. Items are kept in an ‘I don't care manner. I'm obsessed with my death. 

My restless hand arranges the stack of books. Then the dresser, until her house is neatly fixed. ‘Goodbye, ugly James.’ The heading on the old calendar makes me laugh. While it's hilarious, it mirrors a broken survivor. 

A fresh dose of anger assaults me. My hands twitch in response, clutching tight as they would James's throat when we meet. Men like him deserve a place in hell. 

I take the blue market, rip out a sheet from her book, and scribble. ‘Blissful Days With My King.’ I open to a blank page and plaster it across the heading. 

A small portrait of her is hanging on the wall. I stare deep into her eyes, drowning in the most ethereal emerald pairs. 

“Let me rewrite your story,” I whisper. “Let me make the world wish to breathe the same air as you, Tessa Morris.” 

The rest of my day swims by pretty fast and I'm back on the bed. My sheets are freshly laundered. Idle, I stare at the LED projector on my bedroom ceiling. I scroll through my playlist, searching for a soft song that'd walk me to sleep. 

Again, her photo distracts me. I'm not sure what I'm doing; I cast it on the screen. 

Above me is a grand display of my lady, her smile warm as summer. I've found a new distraction. For her, I'll remain in this haunted city. 

My fingers snap as the clock ticks 10. I've rolled the fucking dice for my silly game.