Love's Dangerous Game

Jasmine Thompson sat alone in her modest apartment, the glow of her laptop casting shadows across the room. In her hand was the grainy photograph she'd spent the last two weeks staring at-a man's face, sharp-jawed and dark-haired, caught by a security camera outside an alley. It wasn't the clearest image, but it was enough.

Enough to know that this was the face of the man who had stolen her sister, Miranda, from her.

Her breath hitched as she thought of that terrible day two years ago. The day her life splintered into a before and after.

She had been at the law firm, neck-deep in court filings, when the call came. At first, she'd let it go to voicemail, assuming it was just another client. But the same number called again. And again. By the third ring, her curiosity outweighed her frustration, and she picked up.

"Ms. Thompson?" The voice on the other end was calm, almost robotic. "This is Officer Calloway with the Metro Police Department. I'm afraid there's been an incident involving your sister, Miranda. Can you come to the city morgue immediately?"

The words didn't make sense. "Incident?" Jasmine repeated, gripping the edge of her desk. "What do you mean? What's happened to Miranda?"

"I'm sorry," the officer said, his voice tinged with the kind of sympathy that made Jasmine's stomach drop. "It's better if we speak in person."

She barely remembered the drive to the morgue. Her heart pounded so loudly she could hear it over the hum of traffic. Every worst-case scenario played through her mind, but nothing could have prepared her for the truth.

The cold, sterile room smelled like disinfectant. The coroner pulled back the sheet, and there she was-Miranda. Jasmine's vibrant, free-spirited younger sister, now pale and lifeless. Her hazel eyes, so much like Jasmine's, were closed, and bruises marred her once-radiant skin.

"The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head," the coroner explained clinically. "It appears to have been a robbery gone wrong."

Jasmine couldn't process the words. Her vibrant, artistic, loving sister-who had just the day before been gushing about an art exhibit she was planning to attend-was gone. Just like that.

A robbery. That's what they called it. A random, senseless act of violence in a city teeming with crime.

But Jasmine knew better. Miranda was cautious, always aware of her surroundings. She wouldn't have wandered into a dangerous area without a reason. And the police's explanation-that she'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time-felt like a lazy conclusion rather than the truth.

For months, Jasmine begged the detectives to dig deeper. She followed up on every lead, called every day for updates, but each time, the answer was the same: no progress.

Eventually, they stopped returning her calls. Miranda's case became just another unsolved crime.

But Jasmine couldn't let it go.

Every spare moment she had outside of her demanding job at the law firm, she spent poring over the evidence herself. She read the reports so many times she could recite them from memory. She replayed the last voicemail Miranda left her-the one about the art exhibit she was so excited to attend-until it was burned into her brain.

And then, a breakthrough.

The photograph had been buried deep in the police's case file, dismissed as inconclusive. But to Jasmine, it was everything. The man in the image was walking out of the alley where Miranda was found, just minutes before her estimated time of death. He wasn't some shadowy figure in the background. He was there, front and center, as if daring someone to find him.

But who was he?

Jasmine had no name to go with the face. Her attempts to match him to public records or criminal databases came up empty. He didn't have a record-or, if he did, it was buried deep, protected by someone with power.

She couldn't go to the police again. They'd already written off Miranda's case, and she knew they'd dismiss this photo just as easily. To them, the grainy image wasn't evidence. It was speculation.

But Jasmine wasn't speculating. She knew in her gut this man had answers.

Her fingers hovered over her laptop keyboard, scrolling through her latest search results. Tonight, she'd stumbled upon something new. A society blog had posted photos from last year's high-profile tech gala-a glamorous charity event hosted by the city's elite. And there, in one of the pictures, was the same man from the alley.

The caption didn't name him, but the event was exclusive enough to give Jasmine a starting point.

Her heart pounded as she stared at the screen. The gala was happening again next week.

If this man was there last year, chances were he would attend again.

She leaned back in her chair, her jaw tightening. This was her opportunity to get close to him, to figure out who he was and what role he played in Miranda's death. She didn't know what she'd say to him or how she'd even approach him, but she would figure it out.

For now, the thought of being in the same room as him-of confronting the man who might have murdered her sister-was enough to keep her going.

Her phone buzzed on the table, pulling her from her thoughts. The screen displayed an unknown number.

Frowning, she answered. "Hello?"

There was a pause, then a low, distorted voice spoke.

"Stop digging," the voice warned, cold and flat. "This isn't something you want to uncover."

Jasmine's pulse quickened. "Who is this? How do you-"

The line went dead.

She stared at the phone, her heart hammering in her chest. Someone knew what she was doing. Someone was watching her.

But instead of scaring her off, the call only solidified her resolve. Whoever this man was, he thought he could intimidate her into giving up.

He was wrong.

Jasmine's grip on the photograph tightened as her hazel eyes burned with determination.

"Whoever you are," she muttered under her breath, "you messed with the wrong sister."