From Chains to Forever

Evelyn's hand trembled as she stared at her phone, the unknown number flashing like a warning. The rooftop bar's lights glittered around her, but the air felt heavy, oppressive, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Lila's eyes were wide, her cocktail forgotten, as she leaned closer, whispering, "Don't answer it, Evie. Not until we know who's out there."

But Evelyn couldn't look away from the screen. The video she'd just seen—her leaving her hotel, the red text *Time's up* scrawled across it—burned in her mind. And that figure in the shadows across the street, phone in hand, watching her. It wasn't just Vincent Kane or Damian Blackwood playing games anymore. This was something else, something deeper, and she was done running from it.

She swiped to answer, her voice steady despite the fear clawing at her chest. "Who is this?"

A low chuckle came through, familiar and chilling, like a memory she'd buried long ago. "You've grown up, Evie," the voice said, rough and laced with mockery. "But you're still that scared little girl from the trailer park, aren't you?"

Her blood ran cold. Nobody called her Evie except Lila—and her mother. But this wasn't her mom's voice, slurred and broken from years of drinking. This was someone else, someone who knew her before Hollywood, before the spotlight. Her past, the one she'd fought so hard to escape, was catching up.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her grip tightening on the phone. Lila grabbed her arm, her face pale, but Evelyn shook her off, stepping toward the rooftop's edge, scanning the shadows across the street. The figure was gone.

"You don't remember me?" the voice taunted. "That hurts. I remember you. The way you'd sneak into that theater, thinking no one saw you. The way you cried when your mom sold your costumes for booze money."

Her stomach twisted, a flood of memories she'd locked away—dusty theater seats, stolen moments of escape, her mother's rages. "What do you want?" she said, her voice shaking now. "Why are you doing this?"

"I want what's mine," the voice said, and the line went dead.

---

Evelyn stood frozen, the phone still pressed to her ear, the city's hum fading to a dull roar. Lila was talking, tugging at her sleeve, but the words didn't register. Her past wasn't just a shadow anymore; it was a noose, tightening with every photo, every email. *Mine.* *Time's up.* And now this voice, dragging her back to a life she'd clawed her way out of.

"Evie, talk to me," Lila said, her voice sharp with worry. "Who was that? What did they say?"

Evelyn lowered the phone, her hands cold. "Someone who knows me," she said, barely a whisper. "From before. From home."

Lila's eyes widened. "Home? Like, trailer-park home? Evie, you never talk about that place. Who could—"

"I don't know," Evelyn cut in, her voice sharper than she meant. She didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to remember the trailer's peeling walls, the fights, the hunger. But someone did. Someone who knew her as Evie, not Evelyn Hart, rising star. And they were here, now, watching her.

Before Lila could press further, a familiar figure appeared at the rooftop's entrance. Damian Blackwood, his dark sweater clinging to his broad frame, his gray eyes scanning the crowd until they locked on her. He moved toward her with purpose, like a storm rolling in, and for a moment, she felt a flicker of relief. Then she remembered his proposal, his intensity, the way he seemed to know too much. Relief turned to suspicion.

"Evelyn," he said, his voice low as he reached her, ignoring Lila's glare. "You okay?"

"No," she snapped, holding up her phone. "I just got a call from someone who knows my past. And another video, with 'Time's up' written on it. You said you'd give me answers, Damian. So start talking. Is this Vincent, or is it you?"

His jaw tightened, but he didn't flinch at her accusation. "It's not me," he said, his voice steady but edged with something darker. "But it's connected to Vincent. I told you—he doesn't just want you. He wants to control you, and he's digging into your life to do it."

"Then why's someone from my past calling me?" she demanded, stepping closer, her anger spilling over. "They knew things—things I've never told anyone. Not even Lila. How's Vincent getting that kind of dirt? And why are you always there when these creepy things happen?"

Damian's eyes flickered, a flash of something—guilt?—before he masked it. "I'm not the one sending you videos, Evelyn. But I have people watching Vincent. He's been digging into your background for weeks. Hired investigators, probably paid off old contacts from your hometown. He's building a file to use against you."

Her stomach dropped. "A file? What, like blackmail?"

"Exactly," Damian said, his voice grim. "He did it to Mia Reynolds. Got her to sign over her career, her life, because he had leverage. I'm trying to stop him before he does the same to you."

Lila snorted, stepping between them. "Oh, please. You expect us to believe you're just some hero? You're asking her to *marry* you, dude. That's not exactly selfless."

Damian's gaze didn't waver from Evelyn. "I told you, I'm no hero. But I'm the only one who can keep Vincent away. My name, my resources—they're your best shot."

Evelyn's head was spinning. Marriage. Blackmail. Her past crawling out of the grave. It was too much, too fast. She wanted to tell him to leave, to figure this out herself, but the call, the video, the figure in the shadows—they were closing in. And Damian, for all his control-freak vibes, was the only one offering a way out.

"Why me?" she asked, her voice quieter now, almost breaking. "Why's Vincent so obsessed? I'm just an actress. I'm nobody."

"You're not nobody," Damian said, his voice softening, and for a moment, his guard dropped, revealing something raw, almost tender. "You're fire, Evelyn. You light up a room, a screen, a stage. Vincent sees that. He wants to own it. And I…" He stopped, like he'd said too much, his eyes searching hers. "I won't let him."

Her breath caught, the air between them charged, like a spark waiting to ignite. She hated how his words got to her, how his intensity made her feel seen in a way she wasn't ready for. Lila cleared her throat, breaking the moment.

"Okay, Romeo, dial it back," Lila said, crossing her arms. "Evie, you don't have to decide anything tonight. Let's get out of here, figure this out somewhere less… dramatic."

But before Evelyn could agree, her phone buzzed again. Another email, no subject. Her heart sank as she opened it, Lila and Damian crowding closer. It was a photo this time, not of her but of a place she'd never forget: the rusted trailer she'd grown up in, its windows cracked, her mother's old car in the driveway. And scrawled across it in red: *Come home, Evie.*

Her knees buckled, but Damian's hand caught her arm, steadying her. His touch was warm, grounding, but it didn't stop the panic rising in her chest. "What the hell is this?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Damian's face darkened as he looked at the photo, his grip tightening on her arm. "Vincent's escalating," he said. "He's trying to scare you into running to him."

"Or it's you," she shot back, pulling away. "You're always here, always with the perfect timing. How do I know you're not playing me?"

He flinched, just barely, but she saw it. "You don't," he said, his voice low, almost pained. "But I'm asking you to trust me anyway. Marry me, Evelyn. Let me protect you. It's the only way to stop this."

She stared at him, her heart torn between fear and defiance. She wanted to say no, to walk away, but the trailer photo, the voice on the phone—they were unraveling her. And Damian, with his storm-gray eyes and desperate edge, was the only anchor in the chaos.

Before she could answer, a scream cut through the rooftop bar. Heads turned, glasses clinked as a figure stumbled out of the shadows near the bar—a man, hooded, clutching a camera. The same figure she'd seen across the street. He bolted for the exit, but not before his hood slipped, revealing a face she hadn't seen in years. A face from her past, from the trailer park, from the life she'd left behind.

"Tommy?" she whispered, her voice breaking. Her childhood friend, the one who'd helped her sneak into the theater, who'd promised to get out with her. He was supposed to be long gone, lost to the same dead-end town she'd escaped.

But he was here. And he was running.