CHAPTER 29: CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Alicia’s POV

The nightmares came in waves.

I was eight years old again, standing in the doorway of our old apartment. My father was drunk, shouting words I didn’t understand. My mother was crying, trying to calm him down while shielding me and my sister behind her.

Then the scene shifted. I was ten, and the bottle was shattering against the wall. Glass everywhere. My father’s hand grabbing my arm. The sharp edge of the table. Pain. Blood.

The scar.

Then I was older. Fourteen. Standing in a hospital hallway. White walls. The smell of antiseptic. A doctor with sad eyes telling me my mother was gone. That the baby was gone too.

All gone.

The nightmare twisted again. Now I was in the present, in that hotel room, and my phone kept buzzing. Over and over. The same message.

Little Ghost. Long time, no see.

My father’s voice echoed through the dream. Mocking. Cruel.

"You can’t hide from me, little ghost. I always find you."

I woke up gasping, my sheets tangled around my legs. Sweat covered my skin despite the room’s air conditioning. My heart hammered so hard it hurt.

The clock on the nightstand glowed: 4:47 AM.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to calm my breathing. Trying to convince myself it was just a dream. Just memories that couldn’t hurt me anymore.

But the text message was real. I grabbed my phone and checked. Still there.

Unknown: Little Ghost. Long time, no see.

My hands shook. I should block the number. Delete the message. Pretend it never happened.

But I couldn’t. Because part of me needed to know. Was it really him? Was my father here in Dark City? And if so, why now?

Sleep didn’t come again. I lay awake watching the sky lighten outside my window, dreading the day ahead.

By the time my alarm went off at six-thirty, I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. My eyes were gritty. My head ached. Every muscle in my body screamed exhaustion.

But I forced myself up. Forced myself to shower. To dress in the professional clothes I’d packed. A navy suit. White blouse. Hair pulled back.

I looked at my reflection and barely recognized the woman staring back. Pale. Dark circles under her eyes. Hollow.

I applied extra concealer. More blush than usual. Anything to hide the evidence of my sleepless night.

Then I gathered the documents for today’s meetings. Contracts. Presentations. Financial reports. Everything Malachi would need.

Work. I could focus on work. Lose myself in numbers and business deals and pretend my world wasn’t crumbling.

At seven-thirty, there was a knock on my door.

I opened it to find Malachi standing there, looking infuriatingly well-rested and perfect. Dark suit. Crisp shirt. That slight smirk that never quite left his face.

"Morning," he said. Then his eyes scanned my face, and the smirk faded. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," I lied, clutching my folder of documents. "Just tired."

"Alicia—"

"I have all the materials ready. We should go over the agenda before the first meeting."

He studied me for a long moment. I could see him deciding whether to push. Whether to demand I tell him what was wrong.

But then he just nodded. "Alright. Let’s grab breakfast first."

We went down to the hotel restaurant. I ordered coffee and toast. Malachi ordered a full breakfast but spent most of the meal watching me instead of eating.

"You need to eat more than that," he said, gesturing to my untouched toast.

"I’m not hungry."

"Alicia—"

"I said I’m not hungry." The words came out sharper than I intended.

He raised his hands in surrender. "Fine. But you’re drinking that coffee."

I drank it. Let the caffeine work through my system. Tried to feel human again.

The first meeting was at nine. A conference room full of investors and executives. Malachi presented our expansion plans while I took notes and pulled up relevant documents when needed.

I could do this. Could function on autopilot even when my mind was elsewhere.

The second meeting started at eleven. More presentations. More discussions about market trends and profit margins.

My head was pounding now. The lack of sleep catching up to me. But I pushed through. Smiled when necessary. Answered questions when asked.

By the third meeting at one o’clock, the room had started spinning.

I was taking notes when suddenly the pen slipped from my fingers. The voices around me became muffled. Distant.

"Mrs. Blackwood? Are you alright?"

I tried to answer. Tried to stand. But my legs wouldn’t cooperate.

The last thing I heard was Malachi’s voice, sharp with concern.

"Alicia!"

Then everything went black.

I woke up in a hospital bed.

The smell hit me first. That antiseptic scent that all hospitals shared. Clean and sterile and wrong.

My eyes flew open, panic clawing at my chest. White walls. Beeping machines. An IV in my arm.

No. No, no, no.

Not here. Not this hospital.

"Hey, you’re okay. You’re safe."

Malachi’s voice. He was sitting in a chair beside the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"What happened?" My voice came out hoarse.

"You fainted. During the meeting. I brought you to the hospital."

Hospital. This hospital.

I looked around frantically, trying to orient myself. Different room. Different floor. But the same building. I knew it. Recognized the layout. The color of the walls. The view outside the window.

"I want to leave," I said, starting to pull at the IV.

"Alicia, stop." Malachi caught my hands. "The doctor said you’re dehydrated and exhausted. You need to rest."

"I’m fine. I just need to go back to the hotel."

"You’re not fine. You passed out in the middle of a meeting."

A doctor came in then, clipboard in hand. Young. Professional. Concerned expression.

"Mrs. Blackwood, you’re awake. Good. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. Can I leave now?"

"I’d like to keep you for observation for a few more hours. Your blood pressure was quite low, and—"

"I’m fine," I insisted. "It was just stress. I didn’t sleep well last night. That’s all."

The doctor exchanged a look with Malachi. Like I was a problem they needed to manage together.

"Stress can have serious physical effects," the doctor said. "I’d recommend—"

"I’ll rest at the hotel. I promise. Please. I just want to leave."

Another look between them. Then the doctor sighed.

"Alright. But you need to stay in bed for the rest of the day. No work. No stress. And drink plenty of fluids." He turned to Malachi. "Can you ensure she follows those instructions?"

"Absolutely."

The doctor left to process my discharge papers. Malachi stayed beside the bed, his hand still holding mine.

"What aren’t you telling me?" he asked quietly.

"Nothing. I’m just tired."

"You’re terrified. I can see it in your eyes. Is it being back in Dark City? Something specific?"

Yes. Everything. This hospital. That text message. My father lurking somewhere in this city.

But I couldn’t tell him any of that. Couldn’t explain the weight of memories crushing down on me.

"I just want to go back to the hotel," I whispered.

He studied my face for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Okay. Let’s get you out of here."

The discharge process took another hour. Paperwork. Instructions. Prescriptions for anxiety medication that I had no intention of filling.

Finally, we were in Malachi’s car heading back to the hotel. I pressed my forehead against the cool window and tried not to cry.

"The meetings," I said. "We missed—"

"Don’t worry about the meetings. I rescheduled everything."

"But the investors—"

"Can wait. Your health is more important."

I didn’t have the energy to argue.

Back at the hotel, Malachi walked me to my room. "Get into bed. I’ll be back in an hour with food."

"I’m not hungry."

"I don’t care. You’re eating."

He left before I could protest further. I changed into comfortable clothes and climbed into bed, exhausted beyond measure.

But sleep wouldn’t come. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it. The hospital room where my mother had died. Different floor. Different wing. But the same building.

I’d been fourteen. They’d rushed her in during labor. Complications, the doctors said. Too much bleeding. The baby was breech.

I’d sat in the waiting room with my father and sister. Waiting. Praying.

Then the doctor had come out with that expression. That terrible, pitying expression that told you everything before words did.

"I’m so sorry. We did everything we could."

My mother was gone. The baby boy she’d been carrying was gone too.

My father had fallen apart after that. The drinking got worse. The anger. The violence.

Within a year, he’d met someone new. Remarried. Moved away with his new wife and my sister.

Left me behind with the Blackwoods like I was garbage he no longer wanted.

Tears slipped down my cheeks. I pressed my face into the pillow to muffle the sobs.

I hated this city. Hated every memory it held. Hated that I’d let Malachi bring me back here.

A knock on the door made me sit up quickly. I wiped my face, trying to compose myself.

"Come in."

Malachi entered carrying bags of food. The smell of something warm and savory filled the room.

"Soup," he said, setting everything on the table. "And bread. And water. You’re going to eat all of it."

"Malachi—"

"No arguments." He poured water into a glass and handed it to me along with two pills. "Take these first. Doctor’s orders."

I took the medication without protest. Too tired to fight.

He set up the food on the bed like a picnic. Handed me a bowl of soup. Watched until I took the first spoonful.

It was good. Warm. Comforting in a way I hadn’t expected.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

"You’re welcome."

We ate in silence. He didn’t push for explanations. Didn’t demand to know what was wrong. Just sat there, a steady presence in the chaos of my thoughts.

After I’d finished half the soup and some bread, he took the dishes away.

"Sleep," he said. "I’ll check on you later."

"You don’t have to—"

"I know. But I’m going to anyway."

He left, and I was alone again with my thoughts. With my memories. With the text message still glowing on my phone.

Little Ghost. Long time, no see.

I should tell Malachi. Should ask for help.

But some demons you had to face alone.

I set the phone aside and curled up under the blankets. Exhaustion finally pulled me under, but even in sleep, the nightmares waited.

My mother’s face. The baby’s cry that never came. My father’s drunken rage.

And underneath it all, that nickname whispered.

Little Ghost.

Like I was something that had never truly existed. Something that could be erased with a single touch.

Maybe I was.