Chapter 1
Eveline
I’m staring at the snow-white ceiling.
It’s suffocating. It feels like a goddamn infirmary where I’m trapped, destined to be tortured day after day.
I’m lying on a black leather recliner—armless, with nothing but a curved headrest to support me. I pull my knees to my chest, and my gaze drifts to the wall. Another sterile, blinding white surface, broken only by a single black-framed photograph.
The picture shows a beautiful young woman with raven hair cascading down her back, and a handsome man holding her by the waist, kissing her with a passion that looks painful.
For a split second, I let myself drift. I imagine being loved like that. Desired like that. But reality hits me like a cold wave, and I kill the thought instantly.
What a load of bullshit.
Every man is a parasite. Every single one.
"Love until the grave"? That’s just a fairy tale written for the naive and the pathologically optimistic. A brilliant marketing ploy.
The truth is simpler: men want one thing, and the moment they get it, they move on to the next girl. They leave you behind with nothing but the agony, the shame, and the hollow ache in your chest.
"Eveline, are you listening to me?"
The voice of my psychologist, Karen, snaps me back. "Honey, please. Stay with me. Don't drift away."
I blink a few times and turn my head toward her.
"I'm listening," I say, staring into her sage-green eyes.
"Good. Then answer my question, dear."
I freeze. I have no idea what she just asked. I’m not even here by choice; my university professor forced me to sign up.
"Well, Eveline?" Karen rests her head on her thumb and forefinger, leaning back in her oversized red velvet armchair. "I’m waiting. You know you have to be here." Her features soften. "Please, talk to me."
I close my eyes and swallow hard. A war between resistance and surrender rages inside me.
Fine. Let’s get this over with.
"Alright," I say, sitting up to face her.
She offers a thin smile and repeats the question I missed.
"You’re still angry at them, aren't you? At your parents... for leaving?"
My parents. Always my parents.
I feel the familiar cocktail of rage and sorrow rising in my throat. Why did they leave me?
Tears sting my eyes. All they left was a note on the dining table saying they wanted to be alone. That they didn't want me with them. Three years have passed, and I still haven't figured out what I did wrong.
Was it me? Did I break something that couldn't be fixed?
"Eveline!" Karen clicks her pen rhythmically.
"I’m not angry at them," I say, my voice cold and hollow.
Liar.
Karen licks her crimson-painted lips and pins me with a sharp, green stare.
"You’re only deceiving yourself, dear." She adjusts her black-rimmed glasses. "You’ll never heal if you don't allow yourself to open up."
"I have nothing to open up about!" I snap, standing up. The leather creaks under me. "And our time is up. I’m leaving."
I head for the brown exit door, desperate to escape this torture chamber. I can’t breathe.
My hand is on the knob when Karen’s voice stops me.
"Next week, same time, Eveline. No excuses."
I glance back over my shoulder, say nothing, and slam the door behind me.
I sprint down the short hallway and duck into the restroom. My heart is racing, my lungs are tightening, and the tears are finally spilling over. I lean against the sink, the world spinning around me.
Calm down, Eveline. Get it together.
I look into the mirror. A single tear tracks down my cheek, and then the dam breaks. I sob, reaching for my neck, squeezing hard. I want to feel the air leave my lungs, but my fingers brush against cold metal.
I loosen my grip, gasping for air, a jagged cough racking my chest.
I pull the necklace out from under my sweater. It was my mother’s. A silver circle with an eight-pointed star inside.
I remember finding it next to the note. I hadn't put it on. In fact, I’d thrown it in the trash in a fit of rage.
So how the hell did it end up around my neck?
The sudden, echoing ring of my phone makes me flinch.
"Dammit," I hiss.
I pull it from my leather jacket. It’s Mark.
Mark is a Detective with the Portland PD. Tall, twenty-three, built like a wall of muscle. We met when my parents disappeared; he’s been the only one helping me hunt for them. I refuse to believe they just walked away. Something... or someone... forced them.
I swipe the green button.
"Hey, Mark," I say, tucking the necklace back under my shirt.
"Eveline? Is everything okay? You sound... off."
I wipe my eyes quickly. "I'm fine. Tell me. Did you find something?"
Please, God, let him have found something.
"Yeah. I think so. When can we meet?"
I cover my mouth with my hand, a sob of relief turning into a breathless laugh. A spark of hope in the endless dark.
"I'm coming over. I'll be there in an hour."
"I'll be waiting. Be careful, Eveline."
I’m so flooded with adrenaline that I let out a small, muffled scream of joy. I shove the phone away and stride out of the restroom, my heels clicking rhythmically against the floor.
I run down the stairs and push through the white entrance doors.
I stop at the threshold.
It’s pouring.
Not a surprise. Portland is a city of shadows and rain, where the sun is a rare visitor. But that’s why I love it.
I pull up my hood and step out into the deluge, heading toward the university. I left my books there, and I have an exam next week. I need the distraction.
I’m walking with my hands shoved into my freezing pockets when a voice calls out.
"Eveline, wait!"
I turn around. On the other side of the street, a short blonde girl in glasses is waving a pink umbrella. Sarah Davis. My classmate in the Occult Studies program. She’s brilliant, with a freakish intuition for the supernatural.
She catches up to me as the light turns green.
"Eveline Crowe! Good to see you," she beams. "Heading to campus?"
"Yeah, left some books. Exams."
"Oh, perfect!" She hooks her arm into mine, sharing her umbrella. "Let's walk together."
✝️✝️✝️
An hour later, I’m walking toward the wealthy district where Mark lives.
It’s on the outskirts—a place where multi-million dollar villas and luxury cars mock people like me.
I hate being home since my parents left. It’s too quiet. Too haunted.
I reach the massive black iron gates and press the buzzer.
"Who is it?" Mark’s voice crackles through the intercom.
"It’s me. Are you going to let me in, or do I have to climb?"
"Well... if you climb, I’ll be forced to put handcuffs on those pretty wrists of yours."
I bite my lip, a stray thought of him actually doing it flashing through my mind. The gate clicks open, dragging me back to reality.
His house is a goddamn fortress. Modern, black-and-white, dripping with high-end tech. A massive fountain stands in the driveway, depicting a dancing couple—his parents, who died in a wreck years ago.
I run a hand through my damp brown hair and adjust my cheap thrift-store tee. I always feel like a stray cat in this neighborhood.
I knock, and Mark opens the door within seconds, smiling.
"Eveline. Glad you're finally here."
"Thanks. My legs are killing me," I tease, hanging my jacket up.
"I would have picked you up if you’d asked."
I don't like relying on people. It makes me feel like a burden.
"Just show me what you found."
He leads me through the house, past the massive living room, down a narrow hall to a locked door. He pulls a key from his pocket.
"Go in."
I step inside and my jaw drops.
He’s definitely a Detective. Whiteboards covered in photos of missing persons and killers stare back at me. I feel the walls closing in.
"You okay?" Mark’s warm hand settles on my waist.
"Yeah. Fine." I look into his blue eyes.
He lets go and sits at his desk, which is buried under crime scene photos and autopsy reports. He clears a space for me.
"So?" I stare at the monitor. "What is it?"
He clicks through a few files until a long list of names and numbers appears. He highlights one row in blue.
My heart skips a beat. I forget how to breathe.
Adam Crowe. My father’s name.
Next to it, a location: Lisbon.
"They're in Lisbon?" I gasp.
Mark swallows hard. "This shows when and where his credit card was used."
"Then we found them!" I jump up, ready to run for the door. Three years of agony, finally ending.
"Wait, Eveline!"
"What?"
"It wasn't your father," he says, his voice low. "I pulled the security footage. Someone else was using his card."
The spark of hope vanishes. I stand there, eyes welling up, unable to speak. I just shake my head.
Am I really this cursed? Am I such a bad person that my own parents would just... discard me?
I look down at my shoes as the tears fall.
Mark’s hands cup my face, forcing me to look at him.
"Am I a failure?" I whisper. "Am I a bad person?"
"Don't you dare think that," he murmurs, his thumb brushing my cheek. "You're incredible."
"Then why did they leave? Why don't they love me?"
"That's their loss. Anyone who leaves you doesn't deserve another second of your time."
He pulls me closer, and for a moment, we just breathe each other in. Then, he kisses me.
I want to push him away, but I’m so goddamn lonely. I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in his light brown hair. I kiss him back, feeling him press me against the door. I can feel the heat of him, the hard line of his desire against my thighs.
His lips move to my neck. I tilt my head back, a moan of pure heat escaping me.
"Don't do this to me, Eveline," he whispers against my skin. "I want us to be together. For real."
"We talked about this," I say, pulling back just enough to look at him. "I don't do relationships. You know that."
He sighs and lets me go.
"I love you, Eveline."
I freeze. The confession feels like a trap.
This isn't good. I don't love him, and I don't want to lose the only person I have left.
"Mark..."
"Don't," he cuts me off, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "I know what you're going to say. You don't love me. It's just sex. Nothing else."
"You're important to me, Mark. But not like that."
He looks out the window, his grey shirt stretching across his broad back.
"I won't force anything on you. But I hope you know... you can always count on me."
I smile. It means more than he knows.
But I also know Mark isn't in love with me; he’s in love with the idea of saving me. And I can't give him what he deserves.
I grab my jacket and head for the door.
Outside, the cool breeze hits my lungs, refreshing and sharp.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and a grimace of pure dread crosses my face.
Time for my shift. Back to that overhyped bar where billionaire CEOs go to "unwind." Another night of enduring their wandering hands and their whispers about what they’d like to do to me.
Wonderful.
