I was mid-shower in my hotel bathroom when that eerie sense hit me—like someone was watching.
I quickly shut off the water. That’s when I heard it—footsteps.
Heart pounding, I braced myself and stepped out. My clothes were scattered on the floor.
As I reached for my phone, a voice called out from the hallway: “Housekeeping!”
I froze in place.
The voice trembled slightly, trying to sound cheerful, but something about it was… off.
I hadn’t requested cleaning service. In fact, I’d put up the “Do Not Disturb” sign—twice.
Still dripping and wrapped in a towel, I opened the bathroom door just enough to scan the room.
Empty.
Except… the closet.
Its door was cracked open.
I crept across the carpet, grabbed the metal lamp off the nightstand like a weapon, and held my breath.
Was someone hiding? Had someone broken in with a key?
I yanked the closet door wide.
Nothing.
No one.
Just an envelope taped to the inside panel. Plain white. A single sentence written in familiar handwriting:
“Sorry, this was the only way to reach you. We need to talk. –T.”
T.
Only one person signed his name that way.
Tavian.
My ex-fiancé.
The same man who ghosted me two weeks before our wedding in Barcelona—no explanation, no goodbye. Just vanished, leaving me with venue bills and a shattered heart.
I hadn’t heard from him since.
Until now.
I sat on the edge of the bed, still in my towel, re-reading the note as my thoughts spun.
Why now? Why like this?
Then my phone buzzed. Unknown number. A text:
“Room 317. Please. Five minutes. That’s all I ask.”
I didn’t reply.
I got dressed.
Then sat there ten more minutes, arguing with myself.
He had no right. No right to show up like this, dragging ghosts into my life just because he was ready.
And yet…
I found myself walking toward Room 317.
The hallway felt unnervingly quiet. My knock was barely audible, more hesitation than intention.
But he opened the door.
Tavian looked worn down. Older. He didn’t speak at first—just stepped aside to let me in.
The room smelled faintly of stale coffee. And maybe regret.
“I don’t deserve a second of your time,” he said, voice low. “But you need to know what happened.”
“You vanished, Tavian. I thought you were dead.”
“I almost was,” he said.
Then he told me.
The morning of our rehearsal dinner, he learned that his long-missing father had been arrested overseas—tied to a massive financial scheme. The authorities needed Tavian to testify. Apparently, he’d unknowingly signed documents that connected him to it.
“They gave me a choice,” he said. “Testify and disappear into witness protection… or refuse and face charges myself. I chose to vanish.”
And just like that, everything began to make a terrifying kind of sense.