Atlanta, Georgia – 1:11 AM


Talia couldn't sleep.


Not with those words echoing through her head: He’s watching both of us now. The walls of her perfectly crafted home—the very symbol of her success—were now her prison. And somewhere inside, someone had breached it.


She needed to know what Marcus was hiding.


Her thoughts pulled her to the one place he always kept locked: the basement.


It wasn’t some dingy crawlspace. The basement was sleek, temperature-controlled, lined with brushed steel shelving and cabinets. Marcus called it his "work sanctuary"—said it housed sensitive client files, investment blueprints, and prototypes. Talia had respected his privacy.


But tonight, respect took a backseat to survival.


She slipped from bed without waking Simone, who had crashed in the guest room, pistol on the nightstand. Wearing only a hoodie and leggings, Talia padded downstairs, flashlight in hand.


The basement door was locked, just as expected. But Marcus wasn't as clever as he thought—she remembered the spare key he once stashed in the false drawer beneath the wine rack.


Click.


The door swung open, revealing the descending staircase and the sterile scent of industrial-grade cleanliness.


She entered.


Rows of filing cabinets, a single sleek desk, and a safe in the corner. The desk held Marcus’s work laptop—password-protected—but the drawers weren’t locked. She found receipts. Investment plans. Real estate flyers. Nothing damning.


Until she opened the manila folder tucked beneath the desk.


Inside were printed photographs. Dozens of them.


Surveillance images.


Of her.


In meetings. On the phone. At her mother’s house. At the gym.


Her entire life documented from a distance.


Talia dropped the folder, heart racing. Then another caught her eye—this one labeled “Isaiah Reed.”


With shaking hands, she opened it.


Inside: photos of Isaiah at art events, standing with Kenyatta Briggs, boarding a plane.


A plane ticket stub—Miami to Atlanta, dated two days before his death.


A sticky note attached to one of the photos simply read:


“He asked for too much. Clean it up.”


She backed away, blood pounding in her ears. What the hell was Marcus involved in?


Behind her, the sound of footsteps. Not from upstairs. From inside the basement.


She spun around, flashlight trembling. The light fell on a wall panel—ajar.


A hidden door?


Talia approached it carefully, pushing it open.


Inside was a small room. Dark. No windows. Just a chair… and camera equipment.


It was a surveillance room.


And on the screen—live footage of every room in the house.


The bedroom. The living room. The guest room.


Talia leaned in, just as Simone rolled over in the guest bed.


And then… another figure entered the frame.


A man. Quiet, looming, dressed in black. He stood over Simone with something glinting in his hand.


Talia screamed.