Alarica

  She’d tried to let it go. The problem was, it hadn’t let go of her.

  Alarica stared at her phone, thumb frozen above the screen, lips pressed tight until they hurt. Her pulse tapped in her neck; she could hear it in her ears.

  Fine. If she’s not gonna listen willingly, I’ll make her listen. But I need to know how he did it first.

  She shoved the phone into her bag as she pushed through the hospital’s double doors, heading for the nurses’ terminal. She had one more thing to check before heading home.

  Her fingers hovered over the computer keyboard, silently debating whether she should type in the information no one else seemed to know. She shouldn’t do this. It was wrong, but Alarica couldn’t stop herself. It wasn’t the name Selene knew. Not the one on the wedding invites, not the one he gave to everyone else. No.

  Alarica’s hand hesitated midair, fingers trembling before making contact. She checked over her shoulder again. And again. She typed slowly; every keystroke seemed too loud, amplified.

  Isaiah Quincy Ward.

  And there he was. Heat and cold collided under her skin as she remembered the weight of his touch. It was him. Same birthday. Same face as in the attached ID photo. Different social. Different story. The cursor blinked on the screen, waiting for her next move.

  A cold knot twisted in her stomach.

  He really did it. He scrubbed his identity clean. No paper trail. Just smoke.

  She clicked through hospital admissions, transfer records, emergency room visits, cross-referencing timestamps she knew too well. Car accidents. One “unexplained” head injury. A record sealed by court file that locked her out. She rubbed her palms against her thighs, suddenly damp.

  And then there was the billing tab. She paused quickly, looking behind her to ensure she was alone. That’s where the real trail would be. Always was.

  The mouse grew slick beneath her palm. She should’ve stopped there. But she didn’t.

  Her credentials denied access. Registration only, exactly as expected.

  She exited clean. Anything else would have left a trail. Failed attempts always did.

  She waited for the system to settle, for the queue to refresh, for the background processes to finish their quiet checks. The screen had to believe she was done.

  Then she came at it sideways, through an audit pathway meant for reconciliation, not records. A temporary corridor, narrow and watched. Logged. Timestamped.

  It was one of the few useful things she’d taken from studying cybersecurity before she dropped out: access wasn’t about force. It was about sequence.

  She moved carefully, letting the system prompt her forward instead of pulling at it. Each step opened the next.

  A pause.

  Confirmation.

  The screen refreshed.

  Green light.

  She thought back to the arrangement that had never been her choice. That money Adrian framed her of stealing back when they worked for the same logistics company?

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  He knew damn well she hadn’t stolen it on her own.

  He wanted her to.

  Men came anyway.

  With tire irons.

  One broken rib.

  A warning whispered into her ear with a smile:

  “Tell your little boyfriend we collect in blood next time; pay up.”

  After that, staying quiet wasn’t about fear. It was about survival.

  Watching from a distance became the only way to feel safe. The only way to stay ahead of him.

  She had left him alone, but that didn’t mean she’d stop keeping tabs on him.

  And when she saw Selene’s name on that marriage certificate a year later, her stomach flipped. She wasn’t just a wife. She was a sitting duck. Awaiting being pulled into his world of trouble.

  The cursor jerked once, then stopped. The screen froze mid-line, his patient data locked in place. Shit. A door hissed open behind her. She heard the nurse’s shoes striking tile, coming closer. The fan whirred as loud as her panic.

  Alarica jabbed the keys.

  Ctrl, Alt, Delete.

  She tried to pull up the task manager, terror creeping up her throat. The screen didn’t move.

  She yanked the monitor’s power cord, killing the screen. The sudden silence roared in her ears. A tap landed on her shoulder, sharp enough to jolt her.

  “Can I help you?”

  She turned, face hot, pulse stuttering. The nurse frowned as she folded her arms.

  “Hey, don’t you work in the lobby? What are you doing in here?”

  “Oh—uh, the system locked up. I was just trying to restart it.” Alarica’s voice cracked as the words stumbled out. She didn’t wait for a reply. She grabbed her bag, nearly tripped over the chair as she pushed past the nurse and into the parking lot, the hospital doors sealing behind her.

  The car made no noise at all. Alarica sat for a moment, letting her thoughts calm. Her hand hovered over the ignition, but instead of turning the key, her gaze caught the rearview mirror. Her perfect bob had come undone. It was now frayed and clinging from sweat. The woman’s reflection was a ghost, a hollow shell with desperate eyes, grasping at any hope to return to who she once was.

  She remembered…

  The tile was cold under her palms as she braced herself against the sink. Mascara smeared at the corners of her eyes, streaking the woman staring back at her in the mirror. She hated mirrors, hated how they never lied, not even when you begged them to.

  Her chest heaved, breath sharp and uneven. She bit down hard, willing the sob back, but it tore out anyway, echoing too loud against the bathroom walls.

  The sudden rush of water made her flinch. She hadn’t noticed someone else was in there until that moment.

  Alarica immediately began splashing water on her face, pretending something was caught in her eye. She lifted her chin, forcing composure, but the older woman could still see the puffiness, the bloodshot red. The tears gave her away.

  Her soft gray curls framed her face, and around her neck hung a silver pendant shaped like a cursive “E,” with an emerald glinting at the tail. It caught the fluorescent light with every shift of her body—expensive and timeless.

  “You shouldn’t cry over men,” the woman said at last, her tone carrying power, roughened by years. “They aren’t worth it.” She turned on the faucet, rinsed her hands, and met Alarica’s eyes in the mirror. There was elegance in her posture; her presence filled the bathroom without effort steady and unsettling.

  Alarica let out a bitter laugh. “He lied. About everything. Manipulated me like it was a game.” Her voice cracked, then hardened. “How stupid of me. I thought I knew him. I thought I could trust him.”

  The woman stepped closer, her reflection sharp and poised beside Alarica’s own. “Trust is a dangerous currency,” she murmured. “Men like him… they spend it until you’re bankrupt.”

  Alarica clenched her jaw, fists tightening against the sink. “I won’t let him do this to me, again.”

  “You don’t have to,” the woman shrugged, her tone smooth, deliberate. “God has a funny way of correcting what’s been done wrong. Sometimes, you just need to let Him… balance the scales.” The woman’s eyes gleamed as she spoke.

  Alarica swallowed hard, the words searing into her chest. For the first time since the tears started, she felt her rage cooling into shape. A weapon.

  The woman gave herself one last look in the mirror. One curl slipped free; she pushed it back where it belonged before turning toward the door. “Don’t waste another tear on that sorry excuse of a man. They’re not worth your salt.” She dismissed herself; every line of her posture spoke authority. The room exhaled after she was gone.

  Alarica stood staring at her own reflection, cheeks still damp, eyes swollen, lids heavy and raw. These would be the last tears she ever shed.

  The memory felt fresh, like yesterday. Alarica blinked hard, forcing it back to the corners of her mind.

  Redemption, she told herself, wasn’t about forgiveness. It was prevention. Stopping the wreck before it started.

  Selene deserved to know the truth.

  She threw her car into drive. Didn’t look back.