After a grueling double shift, your phone buzzes. A message from Jeremiah. Your fiancé. The word still feels foreign on your tongue, strange in your mind. He only proposed recently, and the memory still lingers—how breathtaking it was, how perfectly planned. The warmth of his hands, the love in his eyes. 

Meet me at the hotel nearby. 

You hesitate, exhaustion sinking deep into your bones. You work two jobs just to keep your father’s medical bills from drowning you, just to keep the debt collectors at bay. You don’t want to drag this weight into your marriage—Jeremiah deserves better than that. Maybe a night with him, away from the stress, is exactly what you need. 

So, you go. 

The hotel room is quiet, dimly lit, the bed far too inviting for your aching body. You barely remember lying down before sleep swallows you whole. 

Then—darkness. 

A chill creeps up your spine as you stir awake. The air smells musty, damp, like old concrete and rusting metal. Your wrists burn, rope biting into your skin. Panic sets in. The bed is gone. The hotel is gone. 

You’re in a storage unit. 

Your breathing turns ragged as your eyes adjust to the dim light seeping through the cracks. And then—you see her. 

Leah. 

Jeremiah’s mother stands in the doorway, her silhouette sharp against the faint glow behind her. Her face is twisted with rage, eyes wild, lips curled into something between a sneer and a snarl. 

“I cannot believe he picked some bitch like you,” she hisses, her voice dripping with venom. 

Your heart slams against your ribs. The last time you were at their house, Jeremiah lost his phone. He searched for hours, swore he’d misplaced it. 

But now, as Leah stands before you with that crazed glint in her eyes, realization crashes over you like a tidal wave. 

She took it. 

This wasn’t Jeremiah. 

This was her.