Shit.
I took a step back instinctively. One second, I was in front of the wardrobe door; the next second, I stepped into the shadows beside the wardrobe.
My back hit the wall, my hand coming up to cover my mouth.
The door handle turned again, and I stopped breathing.
Ryan stepped inside.
From where I stood, hidden in the narrow space between the wardrobe and the wall, I could see him.
He walked in slowly and paused.
My breath stuttered.
He knew something was wrong.
My pulse roared in my ears, and I couldn’t breathe.
Ryan’s gaze swept the room.
The desk.
The bed.
The floor.
And then his gaze stopped on the open panel.
My stomach dropped.
He stepped toward it, each step measured, his movements deliberate.
He stopped, staring at the empty space where the diary had been.
Then he let out a slow exhale, his eyes narrowing.
I could tell right then that he had figured it out. He knew it was me.
And that made it worse. Cold sweat trickled down my spine, my heart drumming so loud I was afraid he could hear it.
Ryan straightened, his expression smooth—but his eyes?
They were cold and lethal.
"Very good, Yvette," he murmured to himself.
I stood pressed against the wall; I didn’t move or react.
Ryan turned, his gaze sweeping the room one last time.
For a second, I thought he would find me. I was certain of it.
But then, he walked out, shutting the door behind him.
Silence crashed over the room.
I couldn’t move.
I didn’t dare breathe until the sound of his footsteps had completely faded down the hallway.
Only then did I slip out from the narrow gap between the wardrobe and the wall, the diary clutched so tightly against my chest that the leather edges dug into my skin.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. My legs felt weak, like they could give out at any second.
I had to get out. Now.
I cracked the door open just enough to peer into the corridor. I let out a breath, realising it was empty.
I slipped out, pulled the door shut with a soft click that sounded like a gunshot in my ears, and hurried toward my own room, bare feet silent on the cool marble.
My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat. The diary burnt against my ribs like a stolen secret that could destroy us both.
I rounded the corner, freezing when my eyes caught a movement... but it was too late.
A hand shot out like a vice, clamping around my upper arm, and slammed me backward with vicious force.
My back hit the wall so hard the impact rattled my teeth, knocking the air from my lungs.
Pain exploded across my shoulder blades. The diary nearly slipped from my grip, but I clutched it tighter, my knuckles white.
I didn’t need a psychic to tell me who it was—Ryan.
His face filled my vision, twisted with fury so dark it made my stomach drop.
"I warned you," he said quietly. "You should have listened."
"W–what?" The word left my lips softer than I intended.
"Seriously, Yvette," he hissed, voice low and venomous, breath hot against my cheek. His fingers dug deeper into my arm with bruising strength.
"Do you think stealing that diary would give you leverage over me?"
My blood turned to ice. He knew. Of course, he knew.
He leaned in closer, pressing me against the wall until there was nowhere to go, his proximity making my skin crawl.
"Tell me, compared to your identity as a cold-blooded murderer, do you really think you’re better than me?"
The word "murderer" landed like a slap.
I flinched. Memories of the torture chamber flashing through my eyes... the collar around my neck, nails ripped out one by one, my father’s cold eyes as he ordered them to finish me.
I shoved the images down, refusing to let them paralyse me, but before I could answer, Ryan’s free hand moved fast and cruel.
He hooked two fingers into the collar of my blouse and yanked it down hard, the fabric tearing slightly at the seam. Cool air hit my exposed shoulder and collarbone.
And then his expression twisted into something ugly, possessive, and unhinged. A low, dangerous sound rumbled in his throat.
"You slut," he snarled, his voice dripping with disgust. His thumb pressed roughly over the already tender skin, grinding it as if he could erase whatever bruise had formed there by force.
"He touched you...and you let him?" Pain flared where his thumb pressed. Something was already there—something sensitive.
Cassian.
Did he leave a hickey?
I tried to remember, but the pressure made me wince, pain blooming hot under his thumb.
" You let him mark what’s "mine "?"
He was pressing hard enough to bruise the bruise, like he wanted to overwrite it with his own violence.
"You’re delusional," I spat, fury burning through the fear. "I don’t belong to you! I’m Yvette, not Isabelle!"
Ryan chuckled, his features twisted into madness. "You took her place, so that makes you mine, not Cassian’s."
"You’re a madman," I spat, snapping my head forward with every ounce of strength I had.
My forehead smashed straight into his nose with a sickening crunch. Blood exploded across his face, warm and wet, splattering my cheek.
Ryan staggered back with a choked roar of pain, one hand flying up to clutch his broken nose.
He lunged again, trying to pin me against the wall with his body weight, his bloodied hand grabbing for the diary. Panic and rage surged through me.
I didn’t wait for him to recover.
I drove my knee up hard and fast, slamming it directly into his groin with everything I had left.
Ryan doubled over with a guttural, agonised sound, hands instinctively dropping to protect himself. His grip on me loosened.
I ripped free, clutching the diary like a lifeline, and bolted down the hallway. My bare feet slapped against the marble, each step jarring the cut on my foot, but adrenaline drowned the pain.
Behind me, Ryan’s furious, muffled curse followed like a promise.
"You’re not getting away that easily, Yvette... You’re mine. Just like she was."
I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.
All I knew was that I had the diary now...and Ryan’s obsession had just turned far more dangerous than I ever imagined.
I reached my room, slipped inside, and locked the door with trembling fingers.
My back slid down the wood until I was sitting on the floor, chest heaving, the diary still pressed to my heart like a shield, but I knew the truth.
This wasn’t over... It had only just begun.