The Man Who Loved My Shadow

Growing up in foster care, my roommate and I spent countless late nights reading stories about long-lost heiresses. Jessie was absolutely convinced that she was the secret, stolen bloodline of the Hamiltions, the citys most untouchable dynasty.

Id always quietly assumed it was a harmless delusion, a coping mechanism for a girl who grew up with nothing. But then she actually showed me the DNA results. And then came the fleet of black town cars, sweeping her away to the Hamiltion estate in a flurry of flashing cameras and tinted glass.

Every day after that, she posted video diaries in our private group chat.

In the latest one, she was lounging on the sun-drenched deck of a private yacht, wind whipping through her expensive blowout. She leaned her head against the shoulder of a sharp-jawed man and beamed at the camera. "Babe, I talked to Tristan. Once my birthday passes next month, you are packing your bags and moving into the estate with me. Were going to run this town together!"

In the background, her newly found brother offered a warm, indulgent smile. "Any friend of my sister is a guest of the Hamiltions. Consider the black card yours to use."

A month later, my heart pounding with excitement, I stood before the towering iron gates of the Hamiltion estate, gripping the handle of my rolling suitcase.

I beamed at the uniformed security guard at the gatehouse. "Hi! Im Fiona. Im Jessies best friendyour new heiress? She asked me to move in with her today."

The guard blinked, his brow furrowing. Then, his expression shifted into something bordering on pitythe way you look at a crazy person.

"Who? Jessie? Look, lady, the Hamiltion family has eight sons. Mrs. Hamiltion had a tubal ligation twenty years ago. There is no daughter."

My hand slipped from the handle of my suitcase. The metal bar rattled against the asphalt. Cold sweat broke out across my collarbone, soaking into my shirt.

If there is no Hamiltion heiress... then who has been sending me those videos every single day? And what kind of nightmare has she actually been living?

1.

A bead of sweat traced a slow, icy path down my spine. I stared at the guard, my ears ringing so loudly it drowned out the rustle of the surrounding maples.

"What do you mean?" I stepped closer to the intercom. "Jessie posted a video yesterday. From the yacht. I watched the Hamiltion town car pick her up from campus with my own eyes. How can she not exist?"

The guard sighed, his irritation hardening. "Listen to me carefully. The Hamiltions have eight boys. No daughters. There has never been a girl born to this family."

He stepped out of the gatehouse and gave my shoulder a firm, dismissive shove. "Move along. We don't do crazy here."

The force sent me stumbling back. My suitcase tipped over, its hard plastic shell scraping loudly against the driveway.

The Hamiltion dynastys obsession with male heirs wasn't exactly a secret in the city's high-society gossip columns. Had they lured Jessie here under false pretenses? Had they locked her away to keep her from claiming her share of the inheritance?

I swallowed the lump of panic in my throat, my trembling fingers fumbling in my pocket for my phone. "You don't believe me? I have proof. I have the videos."

I swiped open the screen, my thumb jerking as I tapped into our saved chat. "This was yesterday. She was on your family's yacht. Your bosss son was right there with her."

The guard crossed his arms, letting out a dry, mocking chuckle.

I pulled up the pinned video link and thrust the screen in front of his face. But instead of Jessie's bright, laughing eyes, a gray warning icon flashed against a blank screen.

This content has been deleted or does not exist.

My breath hitched. That was impossible. With stiff, frantic fingers, I tapped the refresh icon. Once. Twice. Four times. The screen remained a dead, hollow gray.

The guard sneered. "Nice try. Showing me a broken link? Look, kid, if you want a sugar daddy, find another gate to knock on."

"It wasn't a broken link! It was there yesterday!" I frantically swiped out of the browser and opened our messaging app. "I have our entire chat history. I'll call her right now. You'll see."

I tapped her profile picturea bright pink aesthetic shot of the two of usand hit the call button.

There was no ringing. No delay. Just the immediate, synthetic drone of an automated operator: The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again.

I snatched the phone away from my ear, staring at the name Jessie hovering at the top of the screen.

An out-of-service number. How could an account that was sending me memes just hours ago suddenly dissolve into nothingness?

Heavy, measured footsteps echoed from the other side of the gate. A middle-aged man in a tailored charcoal suit walked down the paved path, a silver crest pinned to his lapel. "What seems to be the disturbance?"

His voice was flat, carrying the practiced coldness of someone who dealt with high-society scandals for a living. His gaze swept over me as if I were a piece of stray litter blown in by the wind.

The guard straightened up instantly. "Sir, this girl claims shes a friend of a 'Jessie Hamiltion'says she's moving in. Shes trying to force her way in with fake links."

The butler adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes piercing through the lenses like needles. "Miss, I assure you, there is no Hamiltion daughter. If you continue to trespass and harass our staff, we will have our legal team file charges for extortion and harassment."

"Im not extorting anyone!" I squeezed my phone so hard my nails bit into my palms. "Where is she? Where is Jessie? She had the DNA test from Westside Medical! She walked through these gates! What did you do to her?"

"Remove her belongings from the property," the butler cut me off, turning on his heel without a single backward glance.

Two other guards stepped forward, ripping my suitcase out of my hands. With a harsh, metallic rip, they tore open the zipper. My sweaters, toiletries, and the worn-out plush bear Jessie had bought me at a thrift store tumbled onto the hot asphalt outside the property line. "Beat it. Step over this line again, and we won't be so polite."

2.

The heavy iron gates swung shut with a resounding, definitive clang. The midday sun beat down mercilessly, but my teeth chattered as if I were caught in a blizzard.

I knelt on the pavement, scooping up my scattered clothes. My hands shook so violently I could barely grip the fabric.

The deleted videos. The dead phone line. The Hamiltion familys cold denial. It was as if they were systematically erasing Jessie from the face of the earth.

I stared through the ornate iron bars, shoving my clothes back into the suitcase with frantic, clumsy movements. I couldn't leave. If the staff was lying, I would wait them out. Someone important would eventually drive through these gates, and I would force them to tell me the truth.

I dont know how long I sat there before the deep, throaty growl of an engine vibrated through the road.

The gates groaned open.

A sleek, midnight-black Maybach glided out, its custom license plate ending in five eights. My pupils dilated. It was the exact same car that had picked Jessie up from the dorms.

The final thread of my composure snapped. I abandoned my suitcase and threw myself into the middle of the road, right into the car's path.

The screech of burning rubber pierced the quiet afternoon. The Maybach jerked to a halt, stopping mere inches from my knees. The driver threw open his door, his face red with fury. "Are you out of your mind? You want to die?!"

I ignored him, lunging past the hood to the rear passenger window. I pounded on the dark, tinted glass with both fists. "Open up! I know you're in there! Where is Jessie? What did you do to her?!"

The window rolled down with a soft hiss, revealing a sharp, aristocratic face etched with annoyance. It was Tristanthe youngest of the Hamiltion brothers, infamous in the city's tabloids. Just yesterday, in the video diary, he had been standing by Jessies side, smiling warmly as he called me an "honored guest."

"Where is she?" I gripped the edge of the window frame, my knuckles stark white against the black trim. "Did you lock her up to keep her away from the family fortune?"

Tristan turned his head, surveying me with a look of pure, unadulterated bewilderment. "Who the hell are you?" He frowned, his tone dripping with irritation. "And who is Jessie? I don't have a sister. I don't even have a female cousin."

"Stop lying!" I screamed, a sob catching in my throat, burning my sinuses. "You were on the yacht with her yesterday! You filmed a video! You said next month, for her birthday"

"Call the police," Tristan cut in coldly, leaning back into his leather seat. The window began to glide back up.

"Wait! Don't you dare walk away!" I pounded on the rising glass, but the window closed completely, leaving me staring at my own terrified, distorted reflection.

In less than five minutes, the wail of sirens cut through the quiet neighborhood. Two police officers jumped out of a patrol car, grabbing my arms and pulling me back from the Maybach. "Step back! Blocking traffic on a public roadare you trying to get yourself killed?"

I lunged toward them, grabbing the older officer's sleeve like a lifeline. "Officer, please! Theyre holding her! My roommate, Jessie. They took her into that house and now she's gone, her phone is disconnected, and they're pretending she doesn't exist!"

The younger officer frowned, pulling out his tablet. "Okay, calm down. What's your roommate's name? Birthdate? Where does she go to school?"

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to stabilize. "Jessie Miller. She's a senior at Crestview University, English Literature major. Her date of birth is October 12, 2001." I rattled off the details I had memorized from years of filling out housing forms together.

The officer typed the details into the database. He paused, squinted at the screen, and cleared the fields to type them in again. "Are you sure about this spelling and date of birth?"

"Yes! We've been roommates for four years. I know her legal name like my own!"

The officer turned the screen toward me. In the center of the database portal, a flashing red warning read: No Records Found.

3.

My mind went entirely blank, as if a physical blow had struck my skull. "No. That's impossible."

I grabbed the edge of the tablet. "Search her student ID at Crestview. Class of 2023, English Department. The ID is 4820"

The officer pulled the device back, tapped in the student database query, and stared at me with an increasingly stern look. "Still nothing. There is no student registered under that name or ID at Crestview. And there's no record of a Jessie Miller with that birthdate in the state database either."

My knees buckled, and I nearly hit the gravel. "How... how is that possible?" I whispered. Then, I looked up at the idling Maybach. "It's them! The Hamiltions own half the city. They paid someone off to wipe her records! You have to search the estate! Shes in there!"

The older officers face darkened. "Alright, thats enough, kid." His voice held a sharp warning. "You think someone can just pay to delete a citizen from federal databases? Youve been watching too many movies. If you keep causing a public disturbance and blocking the Hamiltions' driveway, were going to have to take you to the station."

"I'm not making things up! She's a real person! She is real!"

The officers didn't listen. They escorted me firmly to the sidewalk, keeping their hands on their holsters until the Maybach roared back to life and swept past me into the afternoon traffic.

I collapsed onto the curb, watching the taillights fade into the distance. The Hamiltions deny her. The police database has no record of her. They didn't just hide herthey erased her entire existence. How deep did the Hamiltion family's reach go?

My canvas bag had spilled onto the dirt during the scuffle. I reached out numbly, gathering my keys, lip balm, and loose change. My fingers brushed against a crumpled piece of paper.

I paused, smoothing out the tight paper ball. It was a receipt from a local coffee shop on campus. The date was from two afternoons ago. And in the delivery note section, printed clearly in black ink, were the words: For Jessie.

I stared at those letters until my vision blurred and a single, heavy tear dripped onto the paper, smudging the ink.

A physical receipt. It was real. She was real.

I shoved the paper into my pocket, grabbed my suitcase, and stood up. I had to go back to campus. I had to find irrefutable proof to shove in their faces.

The taxi screeched to a halt outside the South Gates of Crestview. I tossed a fifty-dollar bill at the driver without waiting for change and bolted toward dorm building number seven.

Mrs. Higgins, the dorm mother, was knitting in her small office.

"Mrs. Higgins!" I slammed my hands onto the wooden counter of her window. "Room 302where are Jessie's things? Did someone come and pack up her side of the room? Why is her bed stripped?"

Mrs. Higgins gasped, nearly dropping her knitting needles. She pushed up her reading glasses, staring at me with deep confusion. "Jessie? Sweetie, what are you talking about? Youve lived in 302 alone for the last four years."

The warmth drained from my face, my blood turning to ice. "What kind of joke is this?" I tried to laugh, but it came out as a strangled sob. "We walk past here together every single day. She literally brought you a bag of honeycrisp apples from her family's orchard last week. Don't you remember?"

Mrs. Higgins set her knitting down, her expression softening into pity. "Fiona, honey... have you been sleeping? I know finals and job hunting are stressful. You brought me those apples. You told me you bought too many at the farmer's market because living in that double room alone got lonely."

I stumbled backward, knocking over a recycling bin in the hallway. "No... no, that's not true!" I spun around and bolted toward the administration building, the cold hallway air burning my throat like swallowed glass.

I slammed open the door to my academic advisor's office. Mr. Henderson was typing away, and his brow furrowed the second he saw me panting in the doorway. "Fiona? What have I said about knocking?"

"Mr. Henderson, where are Jessie Miller's student files?" I rushed to his desk, slamming my palms onto the mahogany wood. "I need to see her records. Right now."

Mr. Henderson sighed, pulling open a filing cabinet behind him. He retrieved a thick manila folder with my name on it and laid it flat. "Fiona... you applied for a single-occupancy waiver during your freshman orientation. You don't have a roommate."