The Immortal Beloved

The thrum of the elevator filled the small space, a stark contrast to the frantic beat of your heart. Outside the sliding doors, the hotel lobby, moments ago a potential trap, was now a receding memory. Your hand, throbbing just moments before, was already smooth, the bruising vanished without a trace. Another close call. The blackouts, the chance encounter, the injured hand – all nearly exposed the secret your life depended on. He was out there, the charming journalist Gabe Moran, who’d seen too much. You had to put distance between you, forget the unexpected spark, bury the fear. But the image of his eyes, that smile, lingered. Your heart, always your potential undoing, had betrayed your caution yet again. You leaned your head against the cool metal of the elevator wall, the ascent mirroring the rising tide of anxiety. Would he pursue? Had he seen the impossible healing? The questions gnawed at you. You had to regain control, reinforce the walls you’d built over centuries. No one could ever know the truth.