Crack. Erase. Type. Erase.
The blinking cursor mocked her—steady, patient, indifferent—as if it were daring her to write something worth reading. Seraphina Calder stared at the screen, her fingers poised above the keyboard like soldiers on the edge of battle. But there was no war. No inspiration. Only the blank page and the weight of expectation pressing down on her like a stone slab.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She wrote another sentence, then hit backspace before even reading it. The rhythmic clack of the keys had once been comforting—a lullaby of creation—but now it sounded like static. Useless noise in the thick, syrupy silence of the room.
Seraphina leaned back in the worn leather chair, exhaling through her nose as she rubbed her temples. The air in her study was thick with dust and old wood. Outside, the wind scraped tree branches against the windows like fingernails on glass. Even the storm seemed more creative than her tonight.
"God," she muttered, staring at the screen like it had personally offended her. "I fucking hate this."
She shoved the laptop away, the screen dimming as the movement shook the desk. Coffee rings stained the mahogany wood. Crumpled notes littered the floor like confetti after a party that never happened. All around her, her so-called success stared her down—walls lined with framed bestseller lists, hardcovers of her past novels stacked neatly on the bookshelves, and awards that now felt more like accusations than accomplishments.
Everyone thought being a bestselling thriller author was glamorous. Fame, fortune, literary acclaim.
But no one talked about the pressure.
The constant hunger for the next great plot.
The deadlines that bled into her bones.
The unread messages from her editor screaming "Draft due next week."
She wanted to scream back: "Then you write it."
Instead, Seraphina pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, as if darkness might somehow reset her mind. She imagined another life—one where she wasn't Seraphina Calder, the mysterious, brilliant author of psychological thrillers.
Maybe in that life she was just... someone's wife. A housewife, even. She'd wake up, tie her hair in a messy bun, pour cereal into a bowl, and kiss her husband goodbye without worrying about plot arcs or twisted murderers. She'd spend her afternoons baking or watching reruns, and her biggest worry would be whether she remembered to defrost the chicken.
No book tours.
No creepy fan mail.
No deadlines breathing down her neck like hungry wolves.
Just soft domesticity. Simplicity.
She let the fantasy stretch out like a blanket in her mind, savoring it for just a second before reality pulled it away.
With a groan, she stood, her joints cracking in protest. Her body ached from sitting too long, her muscles stiff with anxiety and caffeine. She crossed the study barefoot, the wooden floor cold under her feet. The house was old—Rosemoor Hollow had been her grandmother's estate, and now, somehow, it was hers.
Tall ceilings, antique chandeliers, stained-glass windows that caught dying light like broken promises. Every corner of the mansion whispered stories. Most were beautiful. Some weren't.
And lately, the silence in the house had become unbearable.
It hadn't always been like this. When her grandmother was here, the house buzzed with life. Music, laughter, the smell of cinnamon tea. Now it felt haunted—not by ghosts, but by absence. The kind that lingered like perfume on an empty coat.
Two months.
Two whole months since her grandmother had vanished without a trace. The police had ruled it a walkaway. "She was old, perhaps confused. Probably wandered off." But Seraphina knew her grandmother better than anyone.
Evelyn Calder didn't just wander.
Her grandmother was sharp, independent, the very definition of impossible to miss. And she wouldn't leave her only granddaughter without a word—no note, no call, no clue.
Just gone.
Seraphina's fingers tightened around the edges of her sweatshirt. She stared out the tall arched window beside the staircase, watching the rain bead against the glass like tiny, desperate hands trying to get in.
Or out.
The storm outside was mild compared to the one inside her chest.
Turning from the window, she headed to the kitchen—one of the few modernized parts of the house. It had polished marble counters and matte black appliances that gleamed in the low light. She reached for the kettle and filled it with water, hoping that the simple act of making tea would calm the chaos rattling in her bones.
As the kettle hummed, her thoughts drifted back to the manuscript waiting on her laptop upstairs. Half a book. Half a plot. Half her sanity. Her agent had called three times this week. Her editor had sent over two revised contract outlines with deadlines she pretended not to see.
They all wanted more.
But what did she have left to give?
The kettle clicked off with a soft finality, releasing a hiss of steam as it powered down. The house, old and sprawling, seemed to breathe around the sound, settling once again into the silence that had become its constant state.
Seraphina moved slowly, almost mechanically, as she reached for the chipped porcelain mug she always used—white with a faded print of ink-stained flowers curling up its sides. Her grandmother had given it to her years ago, insisting that tea tasted better in "a cup with history." At the time, she had laughed. Now, the sentiment wrapped tightly around her chest.
She poured the hot water over the tea bag and inhaled as the scent rose—chamomile, lavender, and honey. Her comfort blend. Her sanity in liquid form. Maybe it would help. Maybe it wouldn't. But she needed to believe it might.
The spoon clinked gently against the ceramic as she stirred.
Rain tapped steadily on the kitchen windows like fingers drumming in impatience. The storm hadn't let up all day, and the grey skies cast a pall over the manor, turning every surface dim and shadowed. It made the house feel bigger than it already was—more echo than walls, more memory than home.
She carried the mug back upstairs to the study, stepping over one of the cats—Archie, the fat tabby who'd followed her home last winter. He meowed grumpily and rolled onto his back in protest at being disturbed, then stretched and disappeared under the dusty couch.
Back in the study, Seraphina dropped into her chair with a sigh and placed the tea on the desk.
The laptop screen had gone dark again, a blank mirror that reflected nothing but her own tired face. She wiggled the mouse and the document reappeared. Fifty pages of her latest manuscript stared back at her. Unfinished. Unpolished. Unworthy.
She stared at it like it had insulted her. Like it had personally offended her entire bloodline.
"You ungrateful little shit," she muttered.
The cursor blinked again.
She read the last paragraph she'd written. It sounded dry. Uninspired. Like someone pretending to be a writer instead of actually being one. She groaned and erased it all. Again.
Being a bestselling author was a curse. Every book needed to be better than the last. The fans were ravenous. The publishers were demanding. The pressure never stopped. There was no room for writer's block when your advance came with seven zeroes and a promotional tour lined up six months in advance.
She took a sip of tea. Warm, floral, sweet—but not strong enough to chase away the knot in her chest. Maybe she'd call her editor tomorrow and push the deadline. Maybe she'd run away to a cabin in the woods. Maybe she'd just marry a lumberjack with good hands and no social media.
She rubbed her temples.
Outside the wind howled, and something groaned in the old bones of the house—pipes or ghosts, she didn't know anymore. She was about to dive into another attempt at her chapter when—
Ding dong.
The sound sliced through the silence.
She froze.
The doorbell. At 8:00 PM. During a storm. At Rosemoor Hollow, where no one ever just dropped by.
She glanced at the screen of her phone. No messages. No calls. No notifications.
The bell rang again.
Seraphina stood, heart thudding. She wasn't the jumpy type—writing crime thrillers for a living made you paranoid but not helpless—but there was something eerie about a visitor this late.
She set the tea down and moved to the hallway, pulling her cardigan tighter around herself as she made her way down the curved staircase. The wide entry hall was lit by a single wall sconce, and her bare feet were nearly silent on the hardwood floor.
The bell rang a third time.
"All right, all right," she muttered, unhooking the chain and turning the heavy deadbolt.
She opened the door—and immediately scowled.
On her porch stood Detective Ellie Grant, the one cop who hadn't dismissed her concerns about her grandmother's disappearance. A sharp-eyed woman in her early forties, Ellie wore her badge with the reluctant honor of someone who saw too much and trusted too little. Seraphina didn't trust many cops, but Ellie had been kind. Honest, at least.
Next to her stood a man Seraphina had never seen before. And she would've remembered him.
Tall. Too tall, maybe. Built like a man who knew exactly how to break bones and disappear bodies. He wore a dark suit beneath a long black overcoat, rain dripping off the shoulders. His expression was unreadable—perfectly composed, as if the weather, the darkness, the world itself didn't touch him.
In one hand, he held a duffel bag. Military style. Heavy. His other hand was tucked in his coat pocket.
His eyes were the only thing that moved—cutting straight into her with quiet precision. Cold and pale, like steel under moonlight. Russian. She didn't know how she knew that. But she did.
"What the hell is this?" Seraphina asked flatly.
Ellie gave a tight, apologetic smile. "Evening, Seraphina. Sorry to drop in on you like this. I... I did say I was going to keep digging into your grandmother's case."
Seraphina crossed her arms. "Right. And?"
"This is Konstantin Ivanov," Ellie said, nodding toward the man beside her. "He's a federal agent. Homeland Security. He's going to be staying here. With you."
For a second, Seraphina just stared. Then she laughed—sharp, humorless. "I'm sorry, did you hit your head on the way here?"
Ellie held up a hand. "I know how it sounds. Believe me, I argued. But this came from higher up. Something about a credible threat, an old investigation Evelyn might've been tied to—it's all very classified. They've assigned him as your on-site protection until things cool down."
"No." Seraphina shook her head. "No way. Absolutely not. I don't need a bodyguard, and I definitely don't need some Russian fed stomping around my house like we're in a damn spy movie."
Ellie's jaw tightened. "It's not a request. I'm sorry, Sera. But this is already in motion. They just sent me to break it to you gently."
Seraphina turned her glare to the man—Konstantin Ivanov, apparently—who still hadn't said a word. He blinked once. Slowly.
"Do you speak, or are you just here to breathe ominously in my hallway?" she snapped.
He didn't react. Not even a twitch. His voice, when it finally came, was low and quiet—but it rumbled with danger.
"I only speak when there's something worth saying."
The silence that followed was thick and sharp enough to cut with a knife.
Seraphina exhaled, slowly, her eyes narrowing.
This was going to be a problem.