Nova POV
"Nova... stop!"
The command cracked through the night like a whip. My sneakers screeched against wet pavent as I spun, lungs burning, fear burning hotter.
The figure tugged at the edge of their mask, fingers frantic, like tearing off their own skin. And then—
Oh God.
Not a stranger.
The face beneath was not what I expected. Not so alleyway creep with a knife. Or a kidnapper.
It’s Sandra.
Sandra from the front desk. Sandra, with her migraine-bright blouses and laugh that could double as a fire alarm.
Sandra, who never missed a chance to look up and down like my existence was a coffee stain on her knockoff heels.
Sandra, who was the despicable Mr Aaron Smith’s favorite colleague.
Is he around?
Did they plan this together?
Do they intend to kill ?
My brain glitched. Static. This had to be a fever dream. Or maybe Grant’s cologne was laced with sothing illegal, because no sane universe served Sandra as my night-stalker reveal.
"What the—" My voice cracked. "Sandra?"
She tossed the mask onto the pavent like she was done playing Halloween.
Her chest heaved from the chase, but her face was smug as ever and sohow she still managed to look superior, like she was about to write up for misfiling sticky notes.
"What the actual hell are you doing?!" I faked my bravery.
"You wouldn’t understand." Her tone was venomous, clipped.
My thoughts spiraled. Pens. I needed a pen. A fat, tal one I could jam between her ribs if she lunged. Or better still, a hardcover erotica. Five-hundred pages of filth turned into a weapon.
The perfect Poetic justice for chasing through the city like a deranged bloodhound.
My heart hamred so hard I almost laughed. Wasn’t this the part where heroines in books pulled so badass move?
Yeah, well—I was no mafia queen. I was Nova, whose ergency plan consisted of "call 911 and maybe throw stationery."
"Why are you following ?!"
Her lips curled. "Why do you think?"
The way she said it made my stomach flip.
If only she knew how chaotic and filthy my thought process was. I’m sure she wouldn’t have asked what I was thinking at any given ti.
I hope she wasn’t talking about and Grant.
Except... wait. Was there even a ’ and Grant’?
There was only mine, hissed across a desk like a curse or a promise.. I still don’t know, and the way his eyes burned when they locked on mine.
It feels like nothing anyone else should know.
"You’re insane," I snapped.
"Am I?" Her laugh was jagged. "Tell the truth. Are you fucking Mr. Calloway?"
The words sucker-punched . My jaw dropped. She had chased down dark streets for that?
My brain flung up random panic thoughts just to cope:
Her eyeliner’s smudged and ssy in the left corner, like war paint.
Should’ve grabbed the blue pen; it’s sharper than the black.
Grant’s voice saying mine was hotter than it had any right to be...damn it, not now, Nova.
"Are you serious right now?!" I sputtered.
Sandra stepped closer. "Don’t play dumb. I see the way he looks at you. I know you’ve been in his office after work hours. Twice. Three tis. He doesn’t do that for anyone. Not him. Not Mr. Calloway. And suddenly... you’re here, and just like that he’s different."
Her voice cracked, raw jealousy leaking through every syllable.
This wasn’t ordinary gossip. This was an obsession.
And if she had followed tonight, it wasn’t just about Grant. It was about . About erasing what she thought was a mistake. .
Sandra’s eyes glead under the streetlight, it was wild, glassy, too bright.
Her hair frizzed from its ponytail, makeup was cracked and sweaty. She didn’t look like the arrogant receptionist who mixed up files. She looked feral, almost Psychotic.
"You think I don’t notice?" she hissed. Her sneakers squealed faintly against the wet street as she crept closer.
"The way he talks softer when you’re around. The way his eyes change. He doesn’t look at anyone else like that."
Ice slid down my spine.
How did she notice all this? So far if I’m asked, Grant has been more cold and emotionless to than warm.
It was still today he referred to as a charity case and stuff. She needs to get her facts straight.
Her fingers twitched at her sides like claws.
"Sandra, you’re insane," I forced out. "You followed half the city. For what? Rumors?"
"Rumors?"
She barked out a bitter laugh.
"I’ve seen you. Leaving the office late."
Duhh.. I was probably imrsed in a novel and didn’t check the ti.
"Hair a ss."
My hair is always a ss. I almost interrupted her
"Lips swollen.You don’t even try to hide it."
It’s official. She needs dical help.
"You don’t know anything."
"Oh, I know enough."
And then she lunged.
Her hand shot for my bag. Panic jolted , I staggered back, clutching tighter, strap biting into my shoulder as we struggled.
"You don’t deserve him!" she scread, raw and broken.
"You’re just so pathetic intern with cheap notebooks and trashy paperbacks! I’ve been loyal for years. And then you walk in with your ugly doe eyes, soft voice and suddenly he notices you?"
Her nails scraped my arm, sharp enough to sting. My imagination twisted for a vile second—if this were one of my books, the restraint would be filthy and desperate, a dark alley scene dripping with sin. My cheeks burned.
No. Not here. Not her.
"Get off !" I shoved, adrenaline surging. My bag swung, slamd against her ribs with a heavy thud, my hardcover inside doing its job. She stumbled back, hissing.
I panted, clutching the strap like a lifeline.
Sandra straightened, ragged, eyes glassy with hatred and heartbreak.
"You’ll ruin him," she whispered, almost tender. "And I can’t let you do that."
Not if Grant ruins first. She must be stupid to think a man like Grant Calloway can be ruined by soone like .
Her voice dropped lower and deeper.
"You think you’re clever, walking here like you belong in this world. But I know where you’re headed."
Confusion snapped sharp. "What?"
She smiled, cruel and satisfied.
"This street. I know it. I’ve walked it. This is the way to his house."
Every nerve in froze.
Grant’s house.
She knew.
"Y-you’re insane," I croaked.
"Am I? Or are you scared because you realize you’re not the first? He let in first, Nova. Don’t think he won’t toss you aside just like ."
The image flashed through my brain, Grant saying mine to Sandra instead. I gagged, bile rising.
"Stop," I hissed.
But she wasn’t done. Her eyes glittered. "You’re just the next toy."
"You’re sick, Sandra," I snapped, voice trembling. "Try this again and I’m calling the police."
She didn’t flinch. The Psycho just... smiled? Small, crooked and Pitying.
"You think the police can protect you? You think Mr. Calloway would let it get that far? He doesn’t like ss. He cleans it up. That’s what you don’t understand."
The words oozed under my skin, sticky and wrong.
She leaned closer, perfu burning the back of my throat.
"He’ll chew you up. Just like he did ."
My pulse froze. Just like he did ??"
But before I could demand more, Sandra yanked her hood up and turned away, vanishing into the night.
All that remained was the discarded mask at my feet and the thunder of my own heart.
Reviews
All reviews (0)