Chapter 9. Oscar

Plans always look simpler when you view them from the outside.
Especially when you’re not the one about to become the victim.

Oscar stood in the half-darkness, listening to the city living on without him. It was a strange feeling—to be “dead” and yet know more about others than they knew about you. People open up when they think the danger has passed.

Iren had always been too honest. Too emotional. She couldn’t stay silent when the truth burned. That’s exactly why she was useful. Not perfect—but enough.

He wasn’t going to turn her into a monster. Only a shadow. A contour. A name that fits conveniently into someone else’s story.

A woman who “didn’t know her place.”
A woman who “loved too much.”

Olivia was different. She understood the rules of the game. She understood that sometimes you had to disappear to win. They never spoke about it aloud—some conspiracies are better kept in glances and half-phrases.

Oscar smiled.

People always believe the simplest explanation.
Especially if it comes with emotion, jealousy, and a woman easy to blame.

His “death” had been only a pause.
And pauses—the most dangerous moments in music.

***

She remembered it suddenly.
Not as a picture — but as a strike.

Her hands clenched the steering wheel again. Her heart raced as if it were happening right now.

“Tell the truth,” she said then, looking at the road. “I know about Olivia.”

Oscar sat next to her. Too close. His tension was tangible, like electric current in the air.

“You’re imagining things,” he snapped. “You always twist everything.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Irene’s voice broke. “You wanted to make me a mistress. Convenient. So everyone would think it was me. And she… she’s the real one.”

The car skidded around the turn. Irene tried to focus, but the words cut deeper.

“You don’t understand anything,” Oscar said, then suddenly leaned forward.

It all happened in a second.

His hand grabbed the wheel.

“What are you doing?!” she screamed.

The car lunged sideways. The world flipped. Metal screamed with her. Impact. Darkness. Glass. Blood. Silence. And then — emptiness.

Now Irene knew it wasn’t an accident. And it wasn’t her fault. He had decided it was better to die for everyone than to live with the truth breathing in his face. And she was a witness they hadn’t planned to leave alive.

The blow came unexpectedly.

Not pain — at first, only a dull sound, as if the world had been suddenly turned off. Irene felt the floor vanish beneath her feet, and darkness rolled in like a heavy wave. The last thing she realized was someone’s breath near her ear and a quiet:

“You remember too much.”

She regained consciousness from the cold.

Her head was splitting, thoughts tangled, time scattered into fragments. The car. The night. Stops. Someone’s hands. Then — darkness again.

And silence.

Irene slowly opened her eyes.

A familiar ceiling. A crack above the mirror. Her apartment. Warsaw.

They had returned her. Carefully. Almost gently. As if she were an object that couldn’t be damaged… yet.

She tried to sit up — her temples throbbed, her fingers trembled. On the nightstand lay a phone. Charged. And next to it — a folded sheet of paper. Irene already knew what was on it.

The note was written neatly. Without emotion. Without threatening words — and that scared her the most.

“You’re alive because you remain silent. What happened in the car stays between us. You will do only one thing. In three days, you will come to a public memorial. Before the cameras. Before everyone. And you will say that you were the cause. That you were driving. That you are guilty. Do not name names. Do not seek justice. Just take the blame. If not — next time you will wake up somewhere other than home. Or you won’t wake up at all. O.”

Irene crumpled the paper in her fist. Her breathing quickened. He didn’t just want to force her silence. He wanted her to become his grave. To bury the truth with her voice.

She slowly sat on the edge of the bed.

“You think I’ll break…” she whispered into the emptiness.

Yet even in fear, Irene felt something else. Not panic. Not despair. Anger. Because if he had forced her to return, it meant she was still dangerous.