I blinked and read it again, slower this time. The handwriting was rushed, the ink slightly smeared. I looked around calmly, slowly.
No one was watching me. I slid the paper into my purse and folded the napkin over the plate like nothing had happened. My hands trembled beneath the table.
Not from age—from fear. I didn’t touch the spritzer again. Darren didn’t notice.
He was busy checking his phone. Lyanna asked if I was feeling cold. I nodded.
She smiled and ordered me another tea. The moment the waiter set the cup down, I could smell it. Familiar, but wrong.
Chamomile mixed with something slightly metallic, almost sweet—like wilted flowers and copper. I thanked him, let it sit untouched, and continued to play along. Later, in my cabin, I locked the door and sat at the desk under the small reading lamp.
I pulled the note from my purse and read it again. This time I allowed myself to feel the panic. My head pounded with questions, but my instincts were louder.
Someone had noticed. Someone had warned me. I replayed the dinner in my mind.
The way Lyanna kept touching my glass. The way Darren barely looked at me unless he was speaking. The way they always knew where I was, what I was drinking, when I went to bed.
It no longer felt like coincidence. It felt organized. Rehearsed.
Continue reading…
