Threads of Red - Chapter 1

~ Chapter 1 ~ ~ Ezekiel ~ Spring 2025 Our individual threads weave within Fate’s Loom. Their pattern was decided long before we drew our first breath. – The Wisdom of Grandma Dahlia Grace Seducing her in dreams, that was nothing, but making love to her in the flesh, that was soul healing. The red string of fate caught them unaware. So potent was its power, everything changed. Time, distance, age, none of it mattered. His fame and wealth, her ordinary life, all took a back seat to the scarlet thread entangling them. They were bound by its enchantment, obedient to its magic. Ezekiel’s insides crackled with unease, fear palpable in every cell. He was on his way home from a press junket for his latest film, Better Late Than Never, set for release this summer. Ellie had begged him not to go, but as the star of the film and its executive producer, he had no choice. He called her the minute his plane landed at LAX. It went straight to voice mail. He fol lowed his driver to the car, threw his bag onto the seat, and slid in. He slipped on aviator sunglasses and wrestled with damning thoughts and urgency. “Break the speed limit if you have to. I need to get home.” “You got it, Mr. Larson,” his driver replied. He called her again and tried to portray a calm tone. “Please call me when you get this message.” Why wasn’t she picking up her phone? He texted her. Nothing. He left messages for his 1 E.l. Ambrico housekeeper Maris, sent texts. No response. He called Max and Jules from his security detail, angry. Both calls went to voice mail. “Where the hell are you?” His parents were on vacation, no use calling them. His driver weaved in and out of traffic on the 405, and Eze kiel’s thoughts contorted with every lane change. Had he made a stupid error in judgment? Ignored the obvious? Counted too much on security to protect them? He kicked himself for dis missing Ellie’s intuition. If anything happened to her, it was his fault. He rifled nervous fingers through his jet-black hair. Late afternoon sun, perched above and beginning to settle to the west, slowed the flow of traffic. Knots churned in his stomach, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightened. His sharp, square jawline clenched in an attempt to smother the foreboding that hit every part of his body. Restive, he bounced to the edge of his seat and rebuked his driver. “This rush-hour traffic is insane. Why didn’t you take Lincoln Boulevard?” “Sorry, it was clear when I checked,” the driver said defensively. “Can’t you go around this idiot?” The driver found an opening and took it. The hammering in Ezekiel’s chest eased when they began to move faster. He peeked at the speedometer. Good. Over the speed limit, but he didn’t care. He’d hijack an ambulance if it meant he could get to her faster. He popped in earbuds, hoping music would soothe his nerves. He checked his texts, praying there was one from Ellie. Nothing. No callbacks or messages from anyone. What the hell? Should he call the police, or was his imagination running wild? When he finally glanced out the window again, the Santa Monica Mountains loomed in the distance. A welcoming sight. He was almost home. He called Ellie again. No response. The pain in his chest reached an unbearable level. He steadied his voice. “Hey, darlin’, I’m almost home. I should be there before the sun sets. Please call me.” Maybe she set her phone on silent 2 Threads of Red while she napped. Any other explanation was something he couldn’t bear. Ellie was his life, his everything. He fell in love with her before they ever met. Just a silhouette at first, with red threads swirling around them in his dreams. When their paths finally crossed, he knew she was the one, his twin flame. He basked in her beauty, in awe of her strength and wisdom. She was his, body and soul, and he relished every single second, begging for her warm skin, every inch of it, to touch his night and day. He craved that luscious bottom lip that pressed against his with certain desire, and he hungered for her sweet breath that washed over him when they made love. Their depth of intimacy was straight fire for his soul, and he belonged to her in a way no other woman could ever claim. Actresses, singers, supermodels—they all threw themselves at him, the young wealthy bachelor; but he never felt a spark until Ellie. Their romance was a passionate whirlwind, intense and wonderful, and neither would have had it any other way. Yet beneath the heat, there was a simple peace, a moment of calm, where he shut out the world beyond their bedroom. Fall ing asleep—her rose-scented hair splayed over his chest and his arm numb under her weight—protected by him—away from clicking cameras and movie premieres, was uncomplicated, but it was everything. Her beside him in the early light of a new day, her breathing, the only sound in the quiet house—no cell phones ringing, no one shouting his name, or asking for his autograph; that was the steadiness that grounded his life. It grounded him. In January, they celebrated his birthday in a private, low key way—minus the Hollywood pageantry. No cameras, no crowds—just an intimate dinner for two followed by dessert with the family. The only soundtrack was easy laughter and meaningful conversation with the people he loved. It was all he needed. 3 E.l. Ambrico His A-list celebrity status meant little compared to the life they created together. Nothing mattered more to him than Ellie and his family. He’d protect them at any cost. So much happened in the last two years, both wonderful and spine-chilling. Despite tabloid stories filled with gossip and innuendos, the paparazzi hot on their trail, family naysayers speaking their minds, and a mysterious woman out to disrupt their lives, their love not only blossomed, it thrived. They shared a red thread unbreakable by any mortal. His driver merged onto the Santa Monica Freeway to con nect to the Pacific Coast Highway, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was temporary. Burned-out homes from the recent wildfires choked the once magnificent landscape like a cata strophic scene out of some post-apocalyptic novel. He reflected on how lucky and grateful he was that his home was spared, but the destruction triggered the hole in the pit of his stomach to sear with dread. When they finally exited and neared his estate, his heart sank. He grappled with a new fear. “Why the hell is the gate open?” “Is something wrong?” the driver asked as they drove through. They neared the security house. “Please pull over for a second. I need to check something.” Ezekiel stepped out of the vehicle and charged into the guardhouse, ready to ream out Max and Jules, but there was no sign of them. He slammed the door behind him and pivoted his glance to the security Jeep parking spots. One Jeep sat idle; the other was gone. Were they up at the main house? He hopped back in the car and directed the driver to the cobblestone circle drive and his front door. Things got scarier by the second. He threw two Ben Franklins at the driver and exited the car with haste, dropping his carry-on bag on the hot pavers. Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip. A sinking feeling rammed his stomach, like butterflies on steroids. His always-in-control per 4 Threads of Red sona crumbled. He was terrified, not knowing where she was. He stepped through the unlocked front door, his face a mask of worry. The faint lines between his brows deepened into a tight anxiety-ridden knot. Concern was etched into his skin. He bit his taut lower lip and forced himself forward as he scanned the shadows of the first floor. “El? Max? Maris?” No one answered. He whistled for the dogs, expecting a welcoming bark fest to ensue as they bolted to the door to greet him, but not one of the three did he see or hear. He walked further in, past the foyer, into the step-down living room, where the big-screen TV played one of his old movies. A chilling shiver rippled down his spine. The scent of grilled meat greeted him as he crept forward. Was Ellie in the kitchen grilling steak? He forged ahead, expect ing to exhale once he saw she was okay. From just past the door frame of the formal dining room, a soft, hypnotic rhythm tolled—not the tinkling music box of a nursery or the sooth ing lullaby he had heard Ellie sing many times. The whimsical, chime-like chords of All the Pretty Little Horses were now a heavy dirge, carrying the weight of a closing casket—the melody vibrating in his bones. It couldn’t be. For a moment, Ezekiel’s boots welded to the marble floor. His hope curdled. In its place, adrenaline burned his veins like scalded mercury, heavy and searing in time with the pealing tune. The music box tolled on with its hypnotic lure until a new sound broke the spell. A sound that didn’t fit—the innocent slap-slap-slap of his baby’s tiny palms on marble, as Clarissa crawled toward him. “What the hell?” Ellie would never allow Clarissa out of her sight. His boots, once stuck to the floor, snapped free, thudding against the stone as he lunged to inter cept her. “Dada.” She lifted her arms. He scooped her up, tucking her head into his chest to shield her—from what, he didn’t yet know. “Hello, sweet girl. 5 E.l. Ambrico Where did you come from?” he crooned. He kissed her fore head and plowed toward the kitchen. “Ellie?” Sizzling echoed as he neared, but there were still no barks or the clicking of canine nails on the marble floor. “In here.” The voice sounded unfamiliar. “I hope I’m slicing this London broil the way you like it,” she said, her back to him, a carving knife in her hand that she raised, point up. Ezekiel’s eyes locked on the figure’s hand. Sweat glistened on her palm and the diamonds on her finger glinted under a beam of the dying afternoon sun that lanced through the skylight. Ellie’s wedding rings. A violent tremor rippled through him, rattling his jaw until his teeth clinked together. His heart gal loped in a pulse much faster than the music box or its carousel pony could ever keep up. The woman stood there in Ellie’s floral sundress, the fabric ruffled in odd places, the hem hanging too low. The faint scent of Ellie’s signature perfume still lingered—the spicy floral essence—seized without consent—reeked on the skin of this freakish impostor. He remembered it as a warm embrace of crushed carnations and toasted citrus with a hint of cloves, a scent that beckoned him to kiss the hollow of Ellie’s neck. Now, the stolen scent felt like a slap across the face. A violent zap from his red-threaded bracelet flared against his wrist, more searing than any warning before. “Who the hell are you?” he snapped, but as the question wrenched free, he already knew. An eerie stillness, something straight out of The Twilight Zone, swept through the kitchen—a horror movie bleeding into the sanctuary of their home with him as the lead actor. Shock settled in his skin causing goose bumps to erupt across his arms. The hair on the back of his neck popped up. Wild pounding knocked against his chest. He froze. Her eyes carried a haunt ing, feral, stone-cold apathy that sent an icy chill straight to his stomach as he watched them dart in all directions. The impos 6 Threads of Red tor, pretending to be Ellie, wore a wild, disordered smile, like a ventriloquist’s puppet. The blood fled from his tan skin—a deathly pallor took its place. He gulped for air, reining in his panic. He had to do whatever it took to find Ellie and save his family. He fought to maintain control and slow his breathing, but his heart beat in frantic thuds, ready to burst through his chest. Ellie’s words echoed in his head. Six degrees of separation. The red thread tied them all, but it was gnarled now, twisted— splintered—like the psychotic woman standing in his kitchen. Sweat trickled down his back while knots of ice pelted his chest; for a heartbeat, he forgot how to breathe. There, on the table—Ellie’s cell. Fear as he had never known turned his blood to slush, and every intake of air burned like ash in his throat. Was he too late? Where the hell was she? Please don’t let her be dead. He couldn’t bear a world where Ellie was gone and this— this grotesque thing, was all that remained. She’s not dead, she can’t be.