The sub-dermal implant beneath my collarbone had become a part of me, a tiny, rhythmic ghost that hummed against my pulse. It was no longer a foreign object; it was the metronome of my life. I had spent three days in a state of suspended animation, moving through the halls of the mansion like a sleepwalker. Adrian had been unusually gentle, a predator satisfied with his kill. He would spend hours in the studio watching me paint, his eyes fixed on the way my skin flushed whenever he walked into the room. He didn't need to check his phone anymore to know my heart rate. He could see it in the quiver of my lips and the way my breath hitched whenever his shadow fell over my canvas.
This morning, however, the air in the mansion felt different. The silence was not peaceful; it was heavy with the
