Chapter 1
The coastal town of Blackwood welcomed Agatha Harkness with a chill that seeped into her bones. The wind carried the scent of salt and decay, the cries of seagulls echoing over the jagged cliffs. The town itself seemed frozen in time, its cobblestone streets and weather-worn buildings cloaked in a perpetual gray mist. Agatha stood on the edge of the small porch of her rented cottage, staring out at the ocean, its restless waves mirroring the chaos she had left behind in the city.
Her life had unraveled spectacularly, a chaotic spectacle for the world to watch. The divorce from Clara had not been a quiet affair—it had been a public spectacle, one that consumed every corner of the media landscape.
And then, the media found out. Every sordid detail of their breakup was splashed across headlines. The moment the papers got hold of it, the feeding frenzy began that left Agatha exposed and raw. It wasn’t just a divorce; it was a tabloid goldmine. The betrayal, the infidelity, the venomous accusations—it all spilled out in the most spectacular fashion. Every detail of their unraveling was twisted into a headline, and Agatha was powerless to stop it.
Headlines like "Crime Novelist’s Life Imitates Art" and "Bestseller Caught in Love Triangle" splashed across newsstands, mocking her pain in bold letters. The irony was cruel as it was cutting. Agatha, a woman who had spent years creating complex, layered characters caught in stories of deceit and betrayal found herself at the center of a story she hadn’t written. Her private heartbreak, every shred of dignity ripped away, was now fodder for public consumption. Her heartbreak was dissected with the kind of glee reserved for scandal, as if people were waiting to see how low she could go. She had been reduced to a character in someone else’s narrative, stripped of agency, and laid bare for public consumption.
Even now, the memory of Clara’s voice—sharp and unrepentant—echoed in her mind, cutting deeper than any headline ever could. "You wrote the story. You just didn’t see yourself in it."
She shook her head, banishing the memory as she turned back to the cottage.
She took a sip from her steaming mug of coffee, its bitterness grounding her. The cottage was a stark contrast to her previous life: small, modest, and isolated. The walls were painted a dull cream, chipped in places, and the furniture was practical but uninspired. It was exactly what she needed. Here, she could focus on finishing her latest novel—a crime novel that had stubbornly refused to come together or start at all if we're being honest. The move was more than just a retreat; it was an opportunity to start over, to leave behind the chaos and heartbreak that had consumed her life for far too long. In this quiet, unfamiliar town, she hoped to find not only inspiration but also a sense of peace, a chance to rebuild herself amid the stillness and salt air. It was also her chance to escape the brewing storm of her life.
Inside, the cottage was sparsely furnished, its modest interior a stark contrast to the chaos of her inner world. Boxes were piled haphazardly in the living room, their labels scrawled in a hurried, jagged script that betrayed her reluctance to sort through them. These boxes contained the fragmented remnants of a life she no longer recognized—books she had once devoured with passion, framed photographs of moments that now felt foreign, and awards that had once filled her with pride but now felt like relics of a person she had lost.
The walls, painted a pale, weathered cream, seemed to press in around her, amplifying the emptiness that hung in the air. Dust motes floated lazily in the soft light streaming through the small, uncurtained windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. The cottage had an air of waiting, as though it was unsure whether she intended to truly inhabit it or simply pass through.
Her books remained in their boxes, stacked like forgotten artifacts of another era. Framed photographs were buried beneath layers of newspaper padding, their glass surfaces hidden from view as if she couldn’t bear to confront the smiling faces captured within. Even the awards, their polished surfaces gleaming faintly whenever she accidentally caught a glimpse, stayed tucked away—symbols of success that now felt hollow, mocking her current inertia.
At the far end of the room, her laptop sat on a small wooden desk by the window. The desk was worn but sturdy, its surface scratched and scarred, hinting at a history of use. The laptop, however, remained untouched since her arrival two days ago, its sleek, modern design out of place in the rustic setting. Agatha had avoided it like a guilty secret, the weight of her unfinished manuscript looming large in her mind. The blinking cursor haunted her even now, an accusing presence she couldn’t escape, a silent reminder of the creative stagnation that had gripped her.
The window behind the desk framed a view of the sea, its endless expanse of gray-blue water stretching toward the horizon. Waves rolled in rhythmically, crashing against the jagged rocks below, their sound both soothing and relentless. The scene was beautiful, almost meditative, but it only served to deepen her sense of unease. Here she was, surrounded by inspiration—nature's wild beauty, the isolation she had sought so desperately—yet the words refused to come.
The cottage was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards as she moved or the faint rustle of the wind against the eaves. It was a place designed for solitude, for reflection, and perhaps for healing. But instead of finding solace, Agatha felt like a ghost haunting her own life, drifting aimlessly through the space she now inhabited but didn’t truly occupy.
The knock on the door startled her. It was sharp, confident—unexpected. She hadn’t seen another soul since arriving two days ago. In Blackwood, her closest neighbors were a good walk away, and she had made no effort to introduce herself. A visit seemed unlikely.
When she opened the door, the sight before her momentarily stole her breath.
A woman stood there, framed by the fading light of the late afternoon. She was striking in a way that made Agatha momentarily forget how to speak.
Her dark, wavy hair cascaded loosely over her shoulders, a few errant strands catching the breeze and framing her face with an almost artful carelessness. Her eyes, deep and almond-shaped, were a rich hazel that seemed to shift between green and brown in the waning sunlight, their intensity softened by a faint, enigmatic smile. High cheekbones gave her an elegant, almost sculptural quality, while a dimple in her left cheek added an unexpected hint of playfulness. Her full lips, painted a shade that flirted between red and plum, curved upward in an expression that was equal parts inviting and unreadable.
She wore a leather jacket that had clearly seen better days, its worn edges and faint scuffs speaking of years of use and character rather than neglect. The jacket hugged her frame perfectly, accentuating her slender build and the confident way she carried herself. Beneath it, a fitted black turtleneck hinted at a lean, toned physique, and dark jeans, torn at one knee, completed the effortlessly cool ensemble. Her boots, sturdy and weathered, seemed practical yet stylish, as though she were always ready for an impromptu adventure.
In one hand, she held a bottle of wine, the label partially obscured but promising sophistication. In the other, she cradled a bundle of wildflowers, their vibrant hues a startling contrast to the muted grays and blues of the day. The flowers seemed freshly picked, their petals slightly damp from the ocean mist, and their stems tied loosely with a strand of twine. It was a detail that felt intimate, as if she’d selected them specifically for this moment.
Everything about her—from her posture to her piercing gaze—exuded an air of effortless confidence, the kind that didn’t demand attention but commanded it all the same. Agatha found herself both captivated and unsettled, as though she were standing before a puzzle she desperately wanted to solve.
“You must be the new tenant,” the woman said, her voice low and melodic, as though her words were meant for Agatha and Agatha alone. “I’m Rio Vidal. I live next door. Well, next door by Blackwood standards anyways”
Agatha’s voice caught in her throat, the carefully rehearsed aloofness she had been planning to deploy utterly disarmed by the sheer presence of this stranger.
“Agatha Harkness,” she managed, her voice betraying a mix of curiosity and wariness.
Rio’s smile widened just enough to reveal a smile, subtle and slightly crooked; a subtle gap between her two front upper teeth stood out. Her gaze remained steady, as if she could see every thought scrambling through Agatha’s mind. “Agatha Harkness,” she repeated, savoring the name like a sip of fine wine. “Now there’s a name that carries weight. Are you a poet? Or a philosopher?”
Agatha blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Something like that” she admitted, suddenly self-conscious.
“Ah,” Rio said, leaning slightly against the doorframe, her presence filling the space. “Dark and mysterious, then. Fitting.”
Before Agatha could respond, Rio held out the wine and flowers. “A little welcome gift. Nothing fancy, but I thought it might brighten your first few days here. Blackwood can be… isolating.”
Agatha hesitated, then reached out to accept the offerings, her fingers brushing against Rio’s briefly. The contact was brief but sent an unexpected thrill through her that she couldn’t quite explain, like the static before a storm. “That’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
Rio stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, her movements fluid and unhurried. “I hope I’m not intruding,” she said, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
“No, not at all,” Agatha lied, still trying to regain her composure. “I… wasn’t expecting company, that’s all.”
As the door closed behind them, Agatha couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just crossed an invisible threshold, one that would change everything.
“It’s cozy,” Rio remarked, setting the wine on the counter and finding a vase for the flowers with uncanny ease. “Though I imagine it feels empty without your stories filling it.”
Agatha’s lips parted in surprise. “I haven’t… I haven’t written anything here yet.”
Rio turned, her gaze locking onto Agatha’s. “Not yet,” she said softly, a faint challenge in her tone. “But you will. I can feel it.”
The room seemed to shift around them, the air growing heavier as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Rio turned, her eyes sweeping over the unpacked boxes and the laptop on the desk. “Moving in always feels like starting over, doesn’t it? Leaving one life behind to make room for another.” She looked back at Agatha, her gaze searching but not unkind. “You seem like someone who’s good at beginnings.”
Agatha laughed, the sound sharper than she intended. “Not lately.”
Rio tilted her head, studying her with an intensity that made Agatha’s skin prickle. “Maybe you just need the right inspiration.”
The words hung in the air, charged with something unspoken. Agatha felt her cheeks flush, a mix of irritation and intrigue blooming within her.Rio’s presence filled the space effortlessly, casting shadows that lingered even as she smiled. Agatha felt both drawn to her and deeply unsettled, as though Rio carried with her an invitation to step closer to an edge Agatha wasn’t ready to approach. For the first time in months, she felt the stirrings of something she couldn’t quite name—a spark, a curiosity, a challenge.
Rio Vidal made herself at home in Agatha’s cottage with an ease that unnerved her. The wine was uncorked with a practiced flick of the wrist, the flowers placed in a chipped vase that Rio had found in the kitchen, and Rio sat cross-legged on the couch, her bare feet tucked beneath her. The room, which had felt suffocatingly empty moments ago, now buzzed with Rio’s presence.
“So, what brings you to our little corner of nowhere?” Rio asked, her gaze sharp despite the casual tone. Her dark eyes seemed to drink in every detail of Agatha’s posture, her hesitations.
Agatha hesitated. She wasn’t ready to lay her wounds bare, especially not to a stranger. “A change of scenery,” she said finally, her words deliberately vague. “And work.”
Rio tilted her head, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Work? Let me guess. Artist? Academic?”
“Writer,” Agatha admitted, bracing for the inevitable questions.
But Rio only nodded, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “I can see that. You have the air of someone who’s always somewhere else.”
Agatha frowned, intrigued despite herself. “Somewhere else?”
“In your head,” Rio clarified, tapping her temple. “Living a thousand lives that aren’t your own.”
The observation was uncomfortably accurate, and Agatha shifted in her seat. “What about you?” she asked, deflecting. “What do you do?”
Rio’s smile widened, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I paint. Landscapes, mostly. Though lately, I’ve been exploring... other subjects.”
“You should come see them sometime,” Rio said, her voice soft yet insistent. “Maybe they’ll inspire something for your work.”
“Maybe,” Agatha replied, though the thought unsettled her. Inspiration, she knew, came with its own price.
Agatha felt the weight of Rio’s gaze and the unspoken words between them. There was an intensity to Rio that was both magnetic and unsettling. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Rio knew more about her than she was letting on.
“Why are you here?” Agatha asked, her voice sharper than intended.
Rio leaned casually against the counter, her eyes glittering with mischief. “I could ask you the same thing,” she said. Then, after a pause, she added, “But I think I already know.”
Before Agatha could press further, Rio pushed off the counter and made her way to the door. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said, her hand lingering briefly on the doorknob. “But if you ever want company you know where to find me.”
As the door closed behind her, Agatha exhaled, not realizing she had been holding her breath. She glanced at the flowers on the counter, their petals dewy and vibrant against the dim light of the room.
The cottage felt emptier than before. Agatha stared at the manuscript on her desk, her mind racing with new possibilities. For the first time in what felt like forever she felt the spark of inspiration. Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the faint echo of Rio’s laughter, a sound that lingered long after the door closed, threading itself through the spaces between Agatha’s thoughts.
She stood by the window, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her coffee mug as she stared out into the night. The wind whipped the sea into a frenzy, waves crashing against the cliffs with the raw violence of untamed nature. The sound was both soothing and unsettling, a reminder of the chaos she’d left behind and the chaos that seemed to follow her still.
Her eyes drifted to the laptop on the desk, its screen black and lifeless. The manuscript had been a source of torment for months—a stubborn void where her creativity used to flow freely. But now, something had shifted.
She placed the mug down and crossed the room, the floorboards creaking beneath her bare feet. Sitting at the desk, she opened the laptop, the screen illuminating her face in the dim light of the single lamp she’d bothered to plug in. The blank document stared back at her, the cursor blinking in a rhythmic, taunting tempo.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitant. The words that had eluded her for so long now clawed their way to the surface, eager and impatient. The story she had been struggling to conjure began to take form, piercing itself together from fragments of her own life, her pain, and the strange electricity of Blackwood.
For the first time in months, the words began to come, and she began to type.