Chapter 2: Hunting in Heels
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing away Emily’s shrieking voice. The sudden quiet of the penthouse hallway was immense, a physical pressure against Sasha’s battered ears. She leaned back against the cool metal door, her body trembling violently. Wine soaked through her socks, chilling her feet. Blood smeared her palm where glass had bitten deep. Her cheek pulsed a sickening rhythm. But beneath the pain and the shock, a current of something else surged: pure, oxygenating terror mixed with a terrifying sliver of relief. She was out.
The elevator ride down twenty floors felt like falling through concrete. Each ding marking another layer of the life she was leaving, another layer of fear shed. The polished steel reflected a distorted image – her hair wild, her face pale and bruised, her eyes wide and haunted. She looked like a ghost escaping its tomb.
Outside, the city breathed. Rain had started, a fine, cold mist that slicked the sidewalks and turned the streetlights into hazy halos. Sasha had nothing but the clothes on her back, her phone – miraculously unharmed in her pocket – and the weight of Zane’s pendant against her skin. She hailed the first cab she saw, its yellow paint glowing like a beacon in the damp gloom. "Just… away from here," she choked out to the driver, her voice raw. "Anywhere."
As the cab pulled away from the gleaming tower that had been her gilded cage, she didn’t look back. She focused on the pendant, cool metal beneath her trembling fingers. Zane. Her lifeline, her ghost, her reason to finally break. The city blurred past the rain-streaked window, anonymous and vast. For the first time in years, Sasha Chen had nowhere to be. It was terrifying. It was freedom.
Emily scrambled to her feet amidst the wreckage of her kitchen. Wine pooled around her designer loafers, soaking into the expensive leather. Glass crunched underfoot. She stared at the closed front door, shock momentarily overriding her fury. Sasha had walked out. Sasha had shoved her. Sasha had defied her.
The silence was absolute, broken only by her own ragged breathing. It wasn't the silence of submission; it was the silence of abandonment. It hollowed her out, filling the void with a cold, pure rage that quickly burned hotter than any previous fury. That pendant. That fucking pendant. And Sasha's eyes… flat, unflinching. Dead. Like Zane's.
A guttural scream ripped from Emily’s throat, raw and animalistic. She kicked a jagged shard of crystal, sending it skittering across the floor like a terrified insect. How dare she? After everything Emily had given her? The security, the status, the life? Sasha was nothing. A clumsy, talentless leech. And now she thought she could just… leave? With his memory clutched to her chest?
Adrenaline, sharp and toxic, flooded Emily’s system. The lawyer-brain clicked on, a cold predator beneath the emotional storm. Where would she go? That pathetic artist squat? Some shelter? Not likely. Sasha had too much pride, too much fear of exposure. She’d run to someone weak. Someone disposable. Someone who reminded her of him.
Emily snatched her keys from the counter, ignoring the wine dripping from her sleeve. The penthouse door slammed behind her with finality, echoing in the empty hallway. She needed to move. To hunt. To reclaim what was hers. The elevator descent was too slow; she tapped her foot, a staccato rhythm of impatience.
Her black BMW roared to life in the underground garage, the engine’s growl vibrating through her bones. She peeled out, tires squealing on the polished concrete, merging into the rain-slicked chaos of downtown Seattle. The city lights blurred past, neon smears on wet asphalt. She wove through traffic with predatory precision, cutting off a delivery van, ignoring the blaring horn. Every jerk of the steering wheel was synchronized with the memory of Sasha’s bloodied lip, her defiant glare, the cool disc of the pendant she’d dared to protect.
Clumsy bitch. Ungrateful cunt. Mine. She’s MINE.
Her knuckles were white on the leather-wrapped wheel. Where? Where would the stupid little whore hide? The rain hammered the windshield, the wipers struggling to keep pace. Her mind raced through Sasha’s meager connections, discarding them one by one. None fit. None were bold enough.
Suddenly, a pulse of jagged, live music cut through the drumming rain and the radio static Emily hadn’t even registered. It spilled from an open doorway a block down – a dive bar she vaguely knew, a place Sasha had mentioned once, years ago, in a different life. Zane played there sometimes…
Emily slammed the brakes. The BMW fishtailed slightly on the wet street before lurching to a halt, half on the curb. She stared, heart hammering against her ribs, not at the bar, but at the cheap, flickering marquee above its entrance.
ONE NIGHT ONLY
ZANE
THE PIANO MAN
The words burned into her retinas. Zane. It couldn’t be. A ghost? A cruel joke? A fucking taunt?
Her breath hitched. A cold sweat prickled her scalp beneath her perfectly styled hair. This was too much. Too perfect. Too… targeted. Sasha’s defiance, the pendant, and now this? Was she being mocked? By fate? By Sasha’s ghost lover?
The simmering rage boiled over, fusing with a sharp, feral obsession. It bypassed logic, bypassed the lawyer’s careful analysis. This wasn't coincidence. It was a sign. A challenge.
She killed the engine. The sudden silence was louder than the engine or the rain. She got out, the wet pavement soaking the hem of her trousers instantly. She didn’t care. The bar’s entrance yawned before her, exhaling warm, stale air thick with the smell of beer, sweat, and the raw, melancholic piano notes that seemed to vibrate the sidewalk beneath her feet. It was the same style. Haunting, lyrical. His style.
Emily pushed the heavy door open. The humid, noisy interior hit her like a wall. Dim light, sticky floors, the low murmur of conversation punctuated by shouts for drinks. And dominating it all, flowing from a battered upright piano crammed into a corner: music that felt like a knife twisting in a barely healed wound.
She stalked towards the bar, her gaze scanning the room, searching for the source. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom. And there he was.
Zane. Of course it was him. He played like he didn’t have a care in the world. His long dread pulled up in high bun as he played. His dark skin looked like velvet under dim lights. If Emily liked men she could get the an appeal of him however that was not the case.
Emily slid onto a worn barstool, her movements taut with predatory stillness. She didn’t order a drink. She just watched him. Watched the way his fingers danced, watched the faint sheen of sweat on his temple, watched the intense, inward focus that shut out the raucous bar. He was good. Too good. An insult.
The set ended. Scattered, appreciative applause broke out. Zane stood up, gave a quick, shy nod, and made his way towards the bar, probably for water, his path taking him right past Emily.
He didn’t see her at first, lost in the post-performance haze. As he passed, close enough for Emily to smell the faint scent of his skin – warm, musky, tinged with something else. Emily turned her head so Zane didn’t notice her as he passed. She didn’t want to be seen just yet.
The humid bar air clung to Emily’s skin like a second, unwanted layer. She watched Zane navigate the crowded space, his movements fluid, relaxed. Unaware. He leaned against the scarred mahogany bar, exchanging a brief, warm laugh with the bearded bartender who slid a tumbler of amber liquid towards him. Zane’s favorite whiskey. Emily knew his habits, his preferences, the small details Sasha had whispered in moments Emily had weaponized later.
He raised the glass in a small salute to the bartender, took a slow sip, the ice clinking softly. His dark eyes scanned the room, perhaps looking for a familiar face, lingering briefly on the dark corner where Emily sat shrouded in shadow. She held her breath, muscles coiled tight as wire, forcing herself to remain still, invisible. Her fingernails dug painful crescents into her damp palms. Every instinct screamed to launch across the room, to rake her nails down that smooth, velvet-dark skin, to make him bleed for stealing what was hers, even in memory. For being alive when Sasha’s defiance pulsed with his ghost.
Not here. The lawyer’s cold logic pierced the red haze. Too many witnesses. Too messy. She needed privacy. Silence. Control. Her rage was a physical tremor vibrating her core, but she clamped down on it, focusing on the burnished wood grain of the bar top. She reached into the inner pocket of her tailored jacket, fingers brushing the cool surface of her phone. With deliberate, controlled movements, she pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill. Her eyes never left Zane’s back as he turned, whiskey in hand, and began weaving his way back towards the small stage where the piano waited.
Now. Swiftly, almost furtively, Emily retrieved the other item from her pocket. It was a small, square photograph, printed on thick paper. The image was stark, brutal: Sasha, moments after the kitchen altercation, slumped against the wine-stained floor. One eye already swelling shut, a vivid split in her lip, blood smeared across her pale cheek like war paint, her sandy brown curls matted with the Cabernet and tears she hadn’t shed for Emily. The defiance in her remaining visible eye, even in suffering, was a fresh wound. On the back, Emily had scrawled her message in precise, sharp letters: ‘I think it’s time me and you have a proper chat. Meet me in the parking lot after your done pretending to be good’. The deliberate grammatical error – ‘your’ instead of ‘you’re’ – felt like a subtle, sneering insult.
She folded the bill around the photograph, message facing outwards, edges perfectly aligned. As Zane passed within a few feet, heading for the stage steps, Emily slid off her stool. She moved with unnerving silence, a predator in expensive shoes. In one fluid motion, she placed the folded money and photo directly onto the corner of the piano lid, precisely where Zane’s whiskey glass would sit when he played. Her hand lingered for a fraction of a second, pressing down, ensuring it wouldn’t slip, before she melted back into the shadows near the restrooms.
Zane settled onto the piano bench, placing his whiskey carefully on the lid. He didn’t immediately notice the folded cash. He adjusted the microphone, took another slow sip of his drink, his gaze drifting across the audience with a gentle, open expression. Then, as he set the glass down next to the piano’s music stand, his fingers brushed the crisp edge of the hundred-dollar bill. A generous tip for a dive bar. A flicker of pleasant surprise crossed his features, a slight smile touching his lips. He picked it up.
The smile vanished.
Emily watched, her breath shallow and silent, from her dark vantage point. She saw the exact moment his body stiffened. Saw the widening of his dark eyes as they scanned the horrific image of Sasha. Saw his knuckles whiten as he clutched the photo, the bill forgotten. His head snapped up, eyes scanning the murky bar with sudden, frantic intensity, searching the faces in the shadows, the figures at the tables. Looking for the sender. Looking for her.
Emily didn’t flinch. She remained utterly still, a statue carved from malice, watching the shock, the dawning horror, the protective fury ignite in Zane’s posture. The music he’d been about to play hung dead in the air. The bar’s oblivious chatter continued, a dissonant backdrop to the silent explosion happening center stage. She saw his lips form Sasha’s name, soundlessly. He stared at the back of the photo, reading her chilling invitation again. His jaw tightened, a muscle leaping beneath his skin.
He didn’t look towards the piano again. Instead, his gaze fixed on the exit sign glowing above the main door leading to the rain-lashed parking lot. He slowly, deliberately, folded the photo and the bill, tucking them deep into the pocket of his jeans. He stood up abruptly, the piano bench scraping harshly on the wooden floor. The microphone wobbled, emitting a sharp feedback whine that cut through the noise. Patrons turned, murmuring.
“Apologies,” Zane’s voice, usually smooth and rich, was strained, tight. “Need a moment. Back shortly.” He didn’t wait for acknowledgment. He pushed away from the piano, his movements suddenly tense, purposeful, and strode directly towards the exit. Not looking left or right. Heading for the parking lot. Heading for her trap.
A thin, feral smile finally touched Emily’s lips, cold and devoid of humor. It was time. She slipped out of the shadows, moving parallel to Zane’s path but staying out of his sightline, a silent wraith flowing towards the bar’s back door. The rain drummed harder against the roof. The parking lot awaited, slick and dark. Perfect.