I stared at the blade again, the weight of it pulling me back to that night. The memory of Victor’s expression as he realized the truth, the flash of betrayal in his eyes. I hadn’t expected to feel anything, but for a brief moment, I had hesitated.

Now, I wondered if that hesitation had cost me.

Another thought clawed its way into my mind, icy and unwelcome: What if this isn’t just a warning? What if this is a game?

I gripped the card tighter, crumpling it in my hand. Whoever had sent the knife wanted something. They weren’t exposing me—yet. But the question loomed: How long until they did?

I needed answers. I needed to find them before they found me.

With a deep breath, I carefully closed the box and slid it into the bottom drawer of my desk. My mind was already moving, forming a plan. If someone wanted to play games, I would play, too. But they’d underestimated me.

Victor wasn’t the only Carroway who knew how to get what they wanted.

For the first time since that night, a cold smile tugged at the corners of my lips.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

I did not sleep that night. I sat next to the fireplace, holding a crumpled card in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. My thoughts spun, dark and confused, as I relived the previous months. Every interaction, every discussion, I'd disregarded as meaningless now felt like a clue I'd missed.


Whoever sent the knife wanted me to sweat. Fine. They were successful. But if they thought I'd collapse so easily, they underestimated how far I was willing to go.


By the time the first light of dawn crept through the rickety windows, I’d come to one conclusion: I couldn’t let this go unanswered. If I stayed idle, they would strike first. The game had begun, and if I didn’t play smart, it would end with me behind bars—or worse.

I retrieved the knife from the drawer, wrapping it back in the pristine kerchief. It was strange, holding it again. Familiar, yet foreign. I slipped it back into the box, then carefully slid both into the hidden compartment beneath the false bottom of my wardrobe.

Next, the card. The handwriting was sharp, deliberate—unmistakably intentional. The crimson ink had dried slightly uneven, suggesting a fountain pen. Whoever had sent it wanted me to notice the details. They weren’t just toying with me; they were making a statement.

I needed to retrace my steps. Starting with the night of the murder.