"Don't touch me!" I screamed, crossing my hands in front of me as a shield.
He chuckled darkly.
Not bothering to listen to anything I just said and ignoring my actions, he brought his hands to my face.
"And tell me, what are you gonna do?" he says a...
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As we arrived home, the tension within me did not dissipate; instead, it festered like a dark cloud that refused to lift. Relief was foreign in this moment, and as I glanced over at Hazel, I noted her eyes lowered—an unsettling mix of fear and something I couldn't quite place. Yet, amidst it all, I felt a surge of protectiveness that eclipsed everything else.
"Upstairs," I commanded, my tone sharp and cold. I clenched my fists at my sides, battling against the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to erupt.
She didn't hesitate, eager to escape the remnants of the gala that still clung to us like a veil. I followed closely behind, my stride fueled by a simmering anger.
Hazel made her way upstairs, her footsteps increasingly muted with each ascent. An oppressive silence enveloped the room, wrapping around me like a heavy cloak. The memory of our encounter at the gala hung in the air, the unspoken threat posed by Victor simmering just beneath the surface. I was determined not to let it intrude upon our lives, especially not on this night.
I reached down to retrieve my phone, feeling a sense of urgency to take action and manage the situation before it escalated any further.
"FameWatch. How may we assist you?" The operator's tone was sharp, reminiscent of the quick click of a camera shutter, ever ready to capture an unguarded moment.
FameWatch—a notorious paparazzi agency renowned for its controversial narratives surrounding high-profile personalities—had carved out a shadowy niche in the world of celebrity gossip. Their stories, often exaggerated and glaringly devoid of ethical principles, thrived on sensationalism, transforming lives into little more than headlines plastered across tabloid covers.
Knowing their hunger for drama and the snarky way they twisted the truth, I had to braced myself for the inevitable. It wouldn't be long before they tried to cash in on my name, spilling every sordid detail of tonight's gala across newspapers and magazines by tomorrow morning. Yet in this moment, I felt a determined to take control of the narrative.
"Get me your director," I had no intention of lingering in ambiguity. Speaking directly to the person in charge would cut through the clutter and deliver my message with complete clarity.
There was a brief pause on the line, the operator hesitating as if he could feel the importance of my request. "Um, may I ask who's calling?" He asked, his confusion evident.
"Mariano," I stated flatly, allowing my last name to linger in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. The silence on the other end was thick; my name carried weight in this industry.
I could hear shuffling and whispers and soon enough, the call was transferred. Muffled sounds of activity filled the background—a chaotic difference to my composed stillness.
And then, the voice I recognized emerged, dripping with feigned kindness. "Mr. Mariano. What an unexpected surprise," the director drawled, each syllable laced with insincerity. I could almost picture his smug grin, the way it twisted at the corners when he believed he had the upper hand.
