The Blackout Ends with Blood
A scream ripped through the darkness, high and ragged, shattering the silence like glass.
When the emergency lights flickered back to life, they painted the room in a sickly, amber glow.
Elise lay on the polished floor, her gown fanned out like a fallen star, a knife twisted in her hand, its blade glinting crimson.
My fingers trembled as I lifted the torn invitation from the floor; the paper was soaked through with dark, fresh blood.
“Claire, look!” Julian shouted, but his voice sounded distant, as if he were speaking from a dream.
I stared at the invitation, the words Mason had scrawled now smeared, the ink bleeding into a grotesque heart shape.
Julian stood motionless beside Elise, his shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the knife. The mask of a charming actor had fallen, revealing a hollow stare.
“He— He killed her,” I whispered, the realization crashing over me. “He… he didn’t want anyone finding out about… about you, Mason.”
Julian’s mouth opened, a sound caught in his throat, then he turned his gaze to me, his expression empty.
“I’m his son,” he finally said, the words a cold stone dropping into the room. “I couldn’t let you expose him.”
The truth settled like a weight on my chest; every lie, every flirtation, every practiced smile had been a thread in a tapestry of deception.
Behind us, the ballroom erupted in chaos, guests shouting, the music stuttering back to life as if nothing had happened.
But in that hidden room, the world narrowed to the blood‑stained invitation in my hands, Julian’s terrified silhouette, and Mason’s hollow stare—silently demanding the secret stay buried forever.
