Rain lashed against the penthouse windows as I stared at the text lighting up my phone: We know where you sleep.

My hands shook. Not again. Not after everything. I’d thought the restraining order would stop them. But Lydia always found a way—anonymous tips to gossip blogs, doctored videos, calls to Albert’s board claiming I was unstable.

A soft knock. Albert stepped in, silk robe half-open, concern etched into his sharp features. ‘Jenny? You’re pale.’

I showed him the message. He didn’t flinch. Just pulled me close, his voice low and steady. ‘They want a war? Fine. But they don’t know who you are now. Or what we are.’

The next morning, a package arrived—my childhood diary, pages slashed, smeared with red ink. A note: Blood can’t be washed away.

Albert wanted to call his lawyers immediately. But Marcus, his investigator, suggested a trap: leak false info and catch them in the act.

Now I stand at the crossroads: Do I vanish again, start over somewhere no one knows my name? Do I fight back with everything I have, risk exposure, risk pain? Or do I confront Lydia and Tanya face-to-face, demand answers for why they hate me so much?