The apartment felt colder than usual.
Not the quiet, nostalgic cold that usually surrounded Sebastian Thorne’s presence, but a suffocating chill that made Isabelle Carter’s skin prickle.
She stood in the center of the living room of 307 Apartment, gripping the worn leather diary so tightly her knuckles turned white. The silver locket hung from her other hand, its chain wrapped around her fingers like armor.
Across the room, Dylan Heywood leaned casually against the doorframe.
His expression was calm. Too calm.
“Isabelle,” he said softly, stepping inside. “You left in such a hurry earlier. I was worried.”
Worried.
The word made something ugly twist in her chest.
For weeks she had believed in that voice. Trusted that gentle smile. Thought he was someone who cared about her art, about the history of the building… maybe even about her.
Now every memory felt poisoned.
“You don’t get to act concerned,” she said quietly.
Dylan frowned slightly, tilting his head. “I don’t understand.”
Isabelle lifted the diary.
“This belonged to Sebastian Thorne.”
At the mention of the name, the temperature in the apartment dropped even further. Behind her, the faint glow of Sebastian’s ghost flickered into existence near the window, his expression tense.
Dylan’s eyes shifted briefly toward the diary.
Just for a second.
But Isabelle caught it.
“And this,” she continued, raising the silver locket, “belonged to Evelyn.”
Silence filled the apartment.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
“You went into my storage room?” Dylan finally asked.
His voice had changed.
The warmth was gone.
Isabelle laughed bitterly.
“Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t snoop for long,” she said. “Just long enough to find old documents, paintings, letters… and a family tree.”
Sebastian moved closer behind her, his presence protective.
Dylan’s gaze sharpened.
“You are Arthur Heywood’s great-grandson,” Isabelle said.
The words landed like a gunshot.
“You’ve been using me,” she continued, her voice shaking with anger. “Pretending to help me discover Sebastian’s story while you were actually searching for his paintings. The same paintings your great-grandfather tried to steal a hundred years ago.”
Dylan didn’t move.
“So tell me something,” Isabelle said, stepping closer. “Was I always just a tool to you?”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then slowly—
He smiled.
But this time the smile was cruel.
Cold.
“Well,” Dylan said casually, “since you already figured it out…”
His expression twisted as if a mask had been ripped away.
“Why should I bother pretending anymore?”
Isabelle’s heart pounded.
Behind her, Sebastian’s eyes burned with fury.
“So what if I’m Arthur Heywood’s great-grandson?” Dylan continued. “My great-grandfather should have gotten those paintings. They were worth a fortune.”
Sebastian’s ghost surged forward in anger.
“Sebastian was a fool,” Dylan sneered. “Trusting everyone around him. Falling in love with that pathetic woman Evelyn. He practically handed everything to my family.”
Isabelle’s stomach twisted.
“You’re disgusting,” she whispered.
Dylan shrugged.
“I’m practical.”
He stepped closer.
“All I wanted,” he said, “was to reclaim what belongs to my family. Those paintings. That legacy.”
His gaze locked onto the diary in Isabelle’s hand.
“And you,” he added softly, “were the perfect way to find them.”
Isabelle felt like she had been punched in the chest.
“You manipulated me.”
“Of course I did,” Dylan said bluntly.
Sebastian’s ghost flared with rage, the lights in the apartment flickering violently.
“And now,” Dylan continued calmly, extending his hand, “give me the diary and the locket.”
“No.”
His eyes darkened.
“Isabelle,” he warned.
“You killed Sebastian,” she snapped. “Your great-grandfather framed Evelyn and destroyed their lives!”
Dylan rolled his eyes.
“Oh please. That was a century ago.”
He stepped forward suddenly.
“Give it to me.”
Isabelle backed away.
“No!”
Dylan lunged.
But before he could reach her—
A violent gust of wind exploded through the room.
Sebastian.
His ghost slammed into Dylan, shoving him back several feet.
“You—!” Dylan staggered.