Chapter 2 — The First Fragmented Dream
Liz Arden
The night stretched on like a taut thread, thin and fragile, as Liz Arden sank into the plush embrace of her leather armchair. Her penthouse bedroom, perched high above the pulsating city, was a sanctuary of sharp lines and muted tones. The faint hum of the skyline’s endless energy seeped through the double-glazed windows, distant and unobtrusive, like the echo of a life she could never entirely escape.
She sipped the last of her wine—an indulgence she rarely allowed herself on a weeknight—and set the glass down on the sleek, obsidian table beside her. Her gaze flicked to the corner of the room, where the Crimson Ledger rested, faintly pulsing with a subtle, rhythmic glow. The sensation tugged at her attention, like a siren song she was determined to ignore. Its presence unnerved her, but not in a way she could articulate. The pulse seemed to synchronize with her heartbeat, a quiet but insistent reminder that her carefully ordered world was beginning to fray.
Victor D’Aubigné’s sudden arrival earlier had unsettled her more than she cared to admit. His words, cryptic and cloaked in ambiguity, lingered in her mind like a splinter she couldn’t extract. There had been weight to them, a sense of something ancient pressing against her modern reality. For the first time in years, Liz felt as though she were navigating a game whose rules she didn’t fully understand.
Brushing aside the unease, she rose, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor as she crossed the room. She peeled off her tailored blazer and slid out of her pencil skirt, trading her armor for silk pajamas that clung to her skin like a second, unfamiliar self. The bed, vast and perfectly made, awaited her. Yet as she slipped beneath the covers, the faint pulsing from the Crimson Ledger seemed to grow more pronounced, as though it sensed her reluctance to engage with it. She forced herself to look away, dismissing the sensation as a trick of her exhausted mind.
Sleep came reluctantly, like a cat unwilling to be tamed. But when it did, it came not as rest, but as a torrent.
---
The dream unfolded in fragments, jagged and vivid, like shards of a broken mirror scattering light in all directions.
She stood in a graveyard cloaked in perpetual twilight. The air was thick with the damp scent of earth and decay, the kind that clung to the bones of the dead. Endless rows of weathered tombstones jutted from the ground like teeth, their inscriptions worn smooth by time. A windless silence hung heavy, broken only by the faint rustle of unseen movements.
Liz looked down and realized she was wearing a gown—its fabric rich and heavy, a deep burgundy that seemed to drink in the dim light. The corset cinched her waist uncomfortably, and the weight of the skirts dragged at her legs. Her hands, pale and delicate, clutched a single red rose, its petals bruised and bleeding color onto her skin. The thorns bit into her palm, and she felt the sharp sting of pain, too real to be a dream.
A voice called out—a desperate, trembling cry. “Please! You don’t have to do this!”
Liz turned, her breath catching as she saw the woman. She was young, no more than twenty, with hair like spun gold cascading in loose waves over her shoulders. Her face was strikingly familiar, but it wasn’t until she stepped closer that Liz’s chest tightened in recognition. It was her own face, younger and softer, untouched by time or ambition. But the eyes—those wide, tear-filled eyes—carried a terror Liz had never known.
The other woman was pleading with someone hidden in the shadows of a towering crypt. The figure stepped forward, and Liz’s heart stilled. It was Victor.
But not the Victor she had met today. This Victor was a creature of wrath and sorrow, his amber eyes burning with a feral intensity. His elegant three-piece suit was stained with blood, and his hands—clenched into fists—seemed to tremble with restraint.
“You cannot undo what has been done,” he said, his voice low and resonant, carrying centuries of grief. “This is the price that must be paid, even if I wish it were not so.”
“No,” the younger version of Liz whispered, her voice breaking. “Please, I’ll do anything. Just spare them.”
Victor’s jaw tightened, his expression twisting with a flicker of regret before hardening into resolve. “It is not you who will pay, but your bloodline. You made your choice, and now it must stand.”
The younger Liz collapsed to her knees, sobbing as the rose fell from her grasp. The petals scattered across the ground, their crimson hue stark against the gray of the tombstones. Victor stepped closer, his shadow stretching impossibly long, swallowing her in its darkness.
And then, a scream—raw, piercing, and endless. Liz’s scream.
---
She woke with a start, her breath ragged and her heart hammering against her ribs. The silk sheets were tangled around her legs, damp with sweat, and the faint scent of roses lingered in the air, cloying and sweet. She sat up, pressing a hand to her chest as if to steady the frantic rhythm beneath. Her hand trembled as she reached for the bedside lamp, the sudden brightness cutting through the shadows.
The memory of the dream clung to her, vivid and unrelenting. She could still feel the heavy fabric of the gown, the cold bite of the graveyard air, and the weight of Victor’s gaze. It wasn’t just a dream. It was something more, something that burrowed beneath her skin and refused to let go.
Liz swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cool floor. She crossed the room to the window, her reflection ghostly in the glass as she stared out at the city. The skyline seemed almost unfamiliar, its sharp edges softened by the haze of her disorientation. A single thought gnawed at the edges of her mind: What if it wasn’t just a dream?
Her gaze shifted back to the desk, where the Crimson Ledger sat. Its faint glow pulsed like a heartbeat, steady and unerring. Liz hesitated, the pull of curiosity warring with her instinct to leave it untouched. It was as though the book had been watching her dream, its presence heavier now, more insistent. She shook her head. No. She wouldn’t let it pull her in—not tonight. Some truths were better left buried.
Instead, she turned to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face in an attempt to wash away the remnants of sleep. As she stared at her reflection in the mirror, she noticed a faint smudge of red on her hand. Frowning, she rubbed at it, only for it to fade into nothingness, as though it had never been there. The lingering scent of roses clung to her skin, faint but persistent, like a ghost’s whisper.
Liz gripped the edge of the sink, her knuckles whitening. “Get a grip,” she muttered to herself, her voice sharp and commanding, as though speaking to an unruly subordinate. But even as she tried to dismiss the dream as stress-induced nonsense, the echo of Victor’s words lingered in her mind, soft but insistent. “This is the price that must be paid.”
Straightening, Liz forced herself to inhale deeply, her chest rising and falling in measured rhythm. Whatever this was, it would not control her. She was Elizabeth Arden, CEO of one of the most powerful companies in the city. She had built her empire through sheer will and determination, and she wouldn’t let shadows and whispers derail her.
Still, as she returned to bed and lay staring at the ceiling, the fragments of the dream replayed in her mind, refusing to fade. The woman’s face—her face—pleading with Victor. The blood-stained rose. The scream that echoed like a ghost in her chest.
And Victor’s words: “This is the price.”
Liz closed her eyes, but sleep didn’t come again.
