As the clock ticks closer to midnight, New Year’s Eve becomes a perfect setting for secrets, suspense, and the unexpected. For Megan, a journalist with a sharp mind and a knack for uncovering the truth, even a glamorous party can carry a sinister undertone.
I wanted to give you a deeper glimpse into Megan’s world before The Last Retreat begins. This exclusive bonus scene isn’t just a celebration—it’s a window into her intuition, her past, and the shadows that seem to follow her.
Step into Megan’s shoes at a glittering New Year’s gala where everything sparkles, but nothing is as it seems. As the night unfolds, subtle unease builds into an unforgettable moment of suspense.
Keep reading to join Megan in the countdown, where every tick of the clock inches closer to an unnerving truth.
Are you ready to start the new year with a thrill? Let’s dive in.
***
The invitation was as mysterious as the event itself: a golden envelope slipped under my apartment door, embossed with swirling calligraphy that read, You are cordially invited to Ravenswood Hall’s New Year’s Eve Gala. No last name, no RSVP details—just instructions to arrive by eight and “dress to impress.”
I almost didn’t go.
I wasn’t exactly in a “gala” state of mind. The last few months had been rough—work deadlines piling up, a story falling through at the last minute, and a creeping sense of stagnation I couldn’t seem to shake. But then again, how often does a woman like me get invited to an event like this? Ravenswood Hall wasn’t just a venue; it was a symbol of old-world glamour, the kind of place that graced the covers of glossy magazines.
The journalist in me couldn’t resist.
Maybe it was a lead. Maybe it was a prank. Either way, I told myself, I’d get a story out of it.
Ravenswood Hall did not disappoint.
The building itself was a work of art, a sprawling estate perched on the edge of the city. Its stone facade glistened under the winter moonlight, the long driveway flanked by wrought-iron gates and manicured hedges. Inside, the ballroom was breathtaking: vaulted ceilings with intricate moldings, chandeliers dripping with crystals, and marble floors polished to a mirror shine.
I felt like an intruder.
Even in the black silk dress my friend had insisted I borrow, I wasn’t sure I belonged. The guests were beautiful, wealthy, and utterly at ease in their gilded surroundings. But as I clutched my champagne flute and wandered through the crowd, I reminded myself that appearances were deceiving. My job had taught me that the most perfect facades often hid the darkest secrets.
And then I saw her.
She stood near the edge of the room, a striking woman in a crimson gown that seemed to shimmer with every move. Her dark hair was pulled back into an elegant twist, and her posture was straight as an arrow, her gaze scanning the crowd with an intensity that set her apart.
My breath caught.
I knew her.
Not personally, but from a story I’d once covered. She was Lydia Carlisle—heiress, philanthropist, and the center of a scandal that had gripped the tabloids two years ago. Her husband had disappeared under mysterious circumstances, and while no charges had ever been filed, whispers of foul play had followed her ever since.
She shouldn’t have been here.
Not because she wasn’t invited—of course she’d be on the guest list of an event like this—but because women like Lydia Carlisle didn’t fade quietly into the background. They either rebuilt their image or disappeared entirely. Yet here she was, watching the crowd like she was waiting for something. Or someone.
My gaze followed hers to a plain, dark door tucked into the far corner of the room. Unassuming, almost hidden, it didn’t seem to belong in a place like this.
By the time I worked up the nerve to approach her, she was gone.
The party swirled on around me—music, laughter, clinking glasses—but my focus was on that door. I wasn’t the only one who had noticed it. A man in a tailored suit tried the handle, then glanced around before moving on when it didn’t budge.
“Miss Megan?”
The voice startled me. A waiter stood beside me, holding a silver tray with a single glass of deep red liquid.
“From an admirer,” he said with a polite smile.
I stared at the drink. A blackberry negroni. My drink.
No one here could have known that.
My chest tightened as I scanned the room, looking for anyone watching me. A part of me wanted to set the glass down and walk away, but another part—the journalist, the curious one—wanted answers. I took the drink but didn’t sip it.
The countdown began as the chandeliers dimmed, casting the room in a warm, golden glow. Guests gathered in clusters, their laughter rising with the excitement of the moment. I edged closer to the door, feeling its pull even as a voice in the back of my mind warned me to stay away.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
I tried the handle. Locked.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
A soft sound, like a whisper, brushed against my ear.
“Some doors should stay closed, Megan.”
Four.
Three.
Two.
I spun around, heart pounding. No one was there. Just a sea of partygoers, their faces alight with champagne-fueled joy.
One.
Cheers erupted, the lights blazing back to life. Confetti rained down as couples embraced and glasses clinked, but I couldn’t shake the chill creeping up my spine.
The door was ajar.
Behind it was a narrow staircase, descending into darkness. The kind of staircase you see in horror films, the kind you know you shouldn’t go down. But I was a journalist, and curiosity has always been my weakness.
The party noises faded as I descended, one careful step at a time. The air grew cooler, the scent of old wood and damp stone filling my nostrils.
At the bottom was a small room, its walls lined with bookshelves and a single desk in the center. On the desk was a black-and-white photograph of Lydia Carlisle and a man I didn’t recognize, their faces pressed close together in a candid moment of joy.
Next to the photograph was a glass of red liquid, identical to the one I’d been served upstairs.
A sound behind me—a soft creak of floorboards—made my blood run cold.
I turned, but the staircase was empty.
When I looked back at the desk, the photograph had flipped over, revealing a handwritten message: Stay away.
***
New Year’s Eve is meant to be a time of hope, resolutions, and fresh starts—but for Megan, it’s a night that lingers in her mind, filled with questions that remain unanswered. This bonus scene offers just a glimpse of the tension and suspense that defines her story in The Last Retreat.
What do you think really happened that night? Was it paranoia, coincidence, or something more sinister? I’d love to hear your theories in the comments below.
And if you’re ready for more twists and turns, The Last Retreat will be available this January. Stay tuned—Megan’s journey is only just beginning, and trust me, it’s one you won’t want to miss.
Here’s to a thrilling start to the new year!
What would you have done if you were in Megan’s shoes? Share your thoughts—I’m always curious to know how my readers would handle a little suspense of their own.
Until next time,
Mona W. Gloss
(Thriller writer and suspense enthusiast)
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