Whispers of Control

ACT 6, SCENE 3

 The Night Andrew Knight Learned to Pray

Sarah's bedroom.

Nightfall.

The cut on her elbow is bandaged.

But the air is a live wire.

Andrew hasn't left.

Sarah won't look at him.

A storm batters the windows.

The silence thickens.

Sarah sits stiffly on the bed, clutching the locket still hidden 

under her sweater.

Andrew stands at the window, back rigid, watching rain slash 

the glass.

His sleeves are rolled up—blood on the cuff.

Her blood.

She should say something.

Thanks.

Go away.

Why do you care?

Instead, she blurts,

"You're still here?"

A beat.

His reflection smirks in the glass.

He speaks.

"You told me to stay."

She mumbles,

"I was dizzy."

His voice—low, too soft—almost missed.

"Liar."

Thunder rattles.

The lights go out.

The room plunges into darkness.

Sarah gasps.

Andrew is beside her in an instant.

"I'm here," he murmurs.

Too close.

God, he was too close.

She can smell his cologne—sandalwood and storm.

Her breath hitches.

His breath grazes her temple.

Her pulse screams:

Push him away.

Pull him closer.

His thumb brushes her wrist.

"You're shaking."

Sarah swallows hard.

"It's cold. That's why…"

A lie.

She was shaking because of him.

Suddenly, a flicker of lightning illuminates his face—jaw 

clenched, eyes wild with something not anger.

Fear.

"Sarah," his voice cracks, "if you had fallen further…"

She dares to look up.

"You would what?"

Something snaps.

Their breaths, ragged. Uneven.

His hand cradles her cheek.

"I would burn the world down to keep you safe."

Her lips part.

Danger.

Desire.

Do it.

A knock at the door.

Lian's voice.

"Sir, the Dubai call…"

Andrew snarls,

"Not now!"

But the spell is broken.

Sarah jerks back.

Andrew stands abruptly, adjusting his cuffs like armor.

"Sleep. I'll send a maid to sit with you."

Coward, she wants to hiss.

You're running too.

Instead, she hugs her knees.

To his silhouette at the door, she mutters,

"I don't need a babysitter."

He pauses.

"I do."

Then he's gone.

One hour passes.

The storm rages on.

Sarah unclenches her fist—the locket's chain has left faint red

 marks on her palm.

Her gaze lands on the nightstand.

A steaming mug of hot chocolate.

A note tucked beneath it.

His silver watch, gleaming under the moonlight.

The note reads:

"Drink. You are still pale. —A."

She presses the paper to her chest.

Her thumb brushes over the initials.

Outside, in the hallway, a shadow lingers.

Broad shoulders.

Head bowed.

Waiting.

Always waiting.

To be continued…

---

She thought the storm ended when the lights came back on…

But what if the real thunder was still walking the halls—wearing a suit and carrying a secret?