It was supposed to be the start of everything. The next chapter. The grand, beautiful opening act of our future together. Inviting her to move in with me felt like the most natural, exhilarating decision I’d ever made. Our love was effortless, comfortable, the kind you read about in books. We’d talked for months about taking this step, dreaming of shared mornings, late-night talks, building a home. My heart practically beat out of my chest with anticipation. I truly believed she was the one.
When she finally did, boxes filling my once-empty spare room, a new energy crackled through the apartment. It was wonderful, those first few weeks. The smell of her perfume lingering, her laughter echoing down the hall, the way we’d fall asleep tangled together every night. Every day felt brighter, fuller. I’d catch myself just watching her, a profound sense of peace settling over me. This is it, I’d think. This is what happiness feels like.
But then, little things started. Micro-shifts I tried to ignore, to rationalize away. She’d often be on her phone, hunched over it, fingers flying, a look of intense concentration on her face. If I walked in, she’d quickly lock it, or flip it over. Just privacy, I told myself. Everyone deserves their own space. But it happened every time. Her answers to “Who are you talking to?” or “What are you up to?” were always vague, a quick “Just my mom,” or “Oh, just scrolling.”
Alexandra Grant and Keanu Reeves sharing a kiss. | Source: Getty Images
A knot began to form in my stomach. A tiny, insidious seed of doubt. Our late-night talks, once so open and intimate, dwindled. She started going to bed earlier, or sometimes, she’d stay up later, claiming she was “just finishing something up.” I’d wake in the middle of the night and she’d sometimes be gone from bed. I’d find her in the living room, whispering into her phone, eyes darting up when she heard me. “Can’t sleep,” she’d say, a little too quickly, and then quickly end the call.
I hated myself for feeling suspicious. I loved her. I trusted her. This was just the adjustment period, right? Moving in together is a big step. People need time. But the unease grew, a constant dull ache behind my ribs. Her warmth seemed to cool, her touch became less frequent. I felt like I was living with a stranger sometimes, sharing a bed, sharing a space, but not sharing a life.
One evening, I came home early from work. Her car wasn’t in the driveway, which was unusual. I figured she was out running errands. I walked into the silent apartment, a strange sense of quiet dread already blooming. As I passed her side of the bed, I noticed her phone. It was open. Not locked, not flipped over, but open. She must have left in a rush.
My breath caught in my throat. My heart started to pound. Don’t look, don’t look, a voice whispered. You’ll regret it. But another, louder voice screamed: You HAVE to know. My hand trembled as I picked it up. It was on a messaging app. Not texts, not social media. Something encrypted, something private.
The messages weren’t with a person. They were with a group. A group named “The Watchers.” My stomach dropped. I scrolled, my eyes wide, barely comprehending the fragments I saw. Dates. Locations. My routines. My friends’ names. My family’s schedule. It was a log. A surveillance log. My blood ran cold. This wasn’t cheating. This was something else entirely. Something terrifying.
Then I saw it. A single message, sent just an hour ago: “He’s home early. Accessing the office now. The ledger is where he said. I found it.”
A close-up of Keanu Reeves and Alexandra Grant. | Source: Getty Images
The office. The locked, dusty office in my house that belonged to my late father. The office I hadn’t touched since he passed away unexpectedly a decade ago. The office my family had always told me not to enter, “out of respect,” “full of old papers.” I had never questioned it. Never had a reason to.
My head swam. What ledger? What was happening? I stumbled toward the office door. It was usually locked, but I tried the handle. It turned. The door swung open slowly, revealing the shadowy room. Nothing seemed out of place. But then, my eyes landed on the old mahogany desk. A single drawer, usually stiff and hard to open, was ever so slightly ajar.
I pulled it open. Inside, beneath a stack of innocuous bills and old letters, was a worn, leather-bound book. A ledger. My father’s ledger. It looked old, ancient, filled with neat, precise handwriting. I flipped it open, my hands shaking so violently I could barely hold it steady.
It wasn’t a business ledger. It was a record. A record of transactions. Payments. Pay-offs. To a name I knew. A name that had haunted my family for years. The name of the man who had caused the accident that took my brother’s life. The man who was never prosecuted, never punished, whose family disappeared overnight. A deep, dark wound I rarely spoke of.
And then, a photo tucked inside the ledger. An old, faded photograph. A group of people smiling. In the center, my father. Next to him, the man who killed my brother. And between them, a little girl. A girl with the same piercing eyes, the same crooked smile, the same distinctive birthmark on her neck as the woman I loved.
My girlfriend.
My world didn’t just shatter, it evaporated. SHE WAS HIS DAUGHTER. The man who shattered my family, whose very name was taboo in our home. She wasn’t just observing me. She hadn’t just moved in. This wasn’t love. It was a mission. A long, insidious, calculating plan.
Alexandra Grant and Keanu Reeves sharing a tender moment at the movie screening. | Source: Getty Images
EVERYTHING. Every kind word, every tender touch, every shared laugh. IT WAS ALL A LIE.
I stared at the photo, then at the open ledger, then at her phone still clutched in my hand, displaying the cold, clinical messages. The air left my lungs. My knees buckled. I sunk to the floor, the world spinning in a vortex of betrayal and terror.
She wasn’t just living with me. She was sent here. She had invaded my life, my home, my heart. Why? What did she want? What was in that ledger? Was I next? Was this revenge? Was it a setup?
I WANTED TO SCREAM. I wanted to tear down the walls, to smash everything around me. The woman I had invited into my life, into my bed, into the deepest parts of my soul, was not just a stranger. She was the daughter of the monster who destroyed my past. And now, she was here to destroy my present, and maybe, my future.
I INVITED MY ENEMY INTO MY HOME. And I loved her. I still loved her, even as the horrifying truth clawed its way through me, tearing me apart from the inside out. My heart, my trust, my entire reality, utterly decimated.
WHAT DO I DO?
