What Fools Do For Love

"Sometimes, the masks we fear the most are the ones that hide the truths we can't escape."

Vasilisa Smirnov.

My fingers trembled as I stared at the check in my hand, a cold reminder of my father's absence. Another sigh slipped from my lips as his personal assistant left the room, her heels clicking against the polished floor. Another fucking check.

Every time I wanted to see him, he sent me money instead. As if that could replace his presence. What was I supposed to do with all this money? I hated my life. I hated my father.

No, that wasn't true.

I loved him more than anything in this world. He was all I had, even if I only saw him once every four months. That's three times a year, but still, I loved him.

I knelt down, feeling the creak in my knees as I reached under my dorm bed. The grey safe sat tucked away in the far corner. I pressed my chest into the floor, straining to grasp the handle. After several attempts, I finally managed to pull it out.

Relief washed over me as I dragged the small safe to the center of the room. The sound of metal scraping against the floorboards made me wince. My mind blanked for a moment as I tried to recall the code.

Oh, right.

My age and the last digits of my birth year.

I whispered the numbers to myself as I entered them into the keypad. The safe clicked open, and a cascade of checks tumbled out. Some were expired, others torn in anger, but they were all I had. The only things my father and our family name had given me—money.

The thought cut deep, like a dagger lodged in my throat. I carefully placed the checks back inside, each one a bitter token of his love. Maybe someday I'd donate the money to an orphanage, to someone who needed it more than I did.

I pushed the safe back under the bed and stood up, glancing around my room. It felt so empty, a sparse collection of random decorations. It was minimalism taken to an extreme. Apart from a bed, a wardrobe, a dressing table, and a reading desk, there was little else. My room was an insult to the top-tier accommodation my father paid for. There was a balcony I never used, some fancy lights I never turned on, and a wide expanse of floorboards that echoed with loneliness.

Massim had offered a thousand times to help decorate my room, but boys weren't allowed in the female dorm. I was sure the other girls would rat me out to the dean if I dared break that rule.

The sudden ring of my phone jolted me from my thoughts. The caller ID flashed Massim's name. I grabbed the phone from the dressing table and answered, his cheerful voice instantly lifting my spirits.

"Lisaaa," he sang, his tone light and teasing. A smile tugged at my lips. "Why did you take so long to pick up?"

"Sorry, I was caught up with something," I replied, sinking into the chair and propping my sock-clad feet on the dressing table.

"You're always caught up with something," he accused, and I could picture him frowning, his curly hair falling across his forehead. "Did your dad call you back?"

The truth tasted bitter on my tongue as I forced the words out. "No."

"Then you need a drink," he suggested. "You need a break."

I started to protest, but he cut me off before I could speak. "Come on, Lisa. It's a fun party, you should come. You've been way too serious lately. One night of fun won't kill you."

I smiled, knowing he was right. It had been too long since I'd let loose. "Alright, I'm in," I agreed. "I need to finish some work first, but I'll be there."

"Perfect," he squealed with excitement. "Tonight, we're going to have the best time."

We stayed on the phone as we got ready, switching to video calls to critique each other's outfits and my makeup. As the evening wore on, a strange sense of anticipation bubbled inside me. It wasn't just excitement for the party; something else lurked beneath the surface, a faint unease I couldn't shake. I tried to ignore it, convincing myself it was just nerves about taking a night off from brooding.

When we finally arrived at the party, it was already in full swing. The music pulsed through the walls of the old house, vibrating beneath my feet. Colored lights flashed, casting everything in an electric glow. I let myself be swept up in the energy, determined to have fun. It was time to let go, even if just for a few hours.

Massim handed me a red solo cup as soon as we walked in. The drink was sweet and strong, the alcohol burning a path down my throat. The tension in my shoulders eased, and the night seemed to brighten, the laughter louder, the music more intoxicating.

We danced, laughed, and drifted through the crowded rooms. Faces blurred together under the strobe lights, and I lost track of time, caught up in the feverish pulse of the party. It was exactly what I needed—a night to forget everything, to just be.

After a while, the heat and noise began to press down on me. "I'll be right back," I shouted to Massim over the music. He glanced at me, concern etched on his face, pausing his conversation with the girls surrounding him.

Massim was a heartbreaker, ever since his first love shattered his heart. He'd become a charming playboy, with looks that could sway anyone. I wasn't surprised by the glares from the girls as I walked away. They always found it hard to believe we were just friends.

I pushed my way through the throng of people, heading for the hallway where I'd seen the restroom earlier. The further I got from the main room, the more the music faded, replaced by the dull thud behind closed doors. The house suddenly felt quiet, too quiet, like the party was a distant dream.

The restroom door was slightly ajar, and I slipped inside, closing it behind me. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and leaned against the cool tile wall, savoring the brief solitude. The faint scent of perfume and soap lingered in the air, a small comfort amidst the chaos of the night.

But as I turned to check my reflection in the mirror, something in the corner of the room caught my eye—a flicker of movement.

I froze, my heart pounding in my chest as the shadows shifted, forming into a figure that hadn't been there before.

A figure clad in a garb that had haunted my nightmares for years.

A red clown mask and black robes.

My breath hitched in my throat, and for a moment, I couldn't move. Fear, cold and paralyzing, gripped me as I stared at the grotesque grin of the mask. The wide, exaggerated smile mocked me with its cheerfulness. But behind it, I could feel the figure's gaze, sharp and predatory, piercing through the mask and locking onto me.

I knew that mask. I'd seen it before—too many times in my nightmares, in the flash of memories I tried so hard to bury.

My stalker. He was back.