Meet Scarlett Striker, a bold and quirky journalist for the Seattle Times. She's fun, confident, sassy, and just the right amount of weird. Scarlett is determined to rise to the top, no matter what it takes.
When her boss offers a golden opportunity...
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Two weeks. Fourteen days that feel stretched into an eternity. Scarlett's always out during the day, tied up with work, and I've become something of a ghost in this room, avoiding every inch of this penthouse like the plague. Away from him. Who knows when he might casually stroll by, making the walls close in tighter.
The idea of stepping outside this room is unbearable; all too aware of how every corner, every piece of furniture, holds some trace of what we used to be. I can't stop the flood of memories—the places we laughed, the spot on the couch where he'd pull me close, the way he looked at me like I was everything. Now, those same memories feel heavy, a weight pressing down on me. The flash of things he did to me, the places he held me, lingers longer than I'd like. I force my mind elsewhere, shoving those thoughts to the back of my mind. It's surreal that a month has passed since we ended things, and yet, here I am, hiding out in his space, thanks to Scarlett and her relentless persuasion. If she hadn't convinced me, I would've been gone in a heartbeat.
I look in the mirror, assessing the reflection that feels like a stranger's. The bruises on my face have faded, but the wounds linger in places they can't heal. My eyes drift down to my hand, to the bandaged thumb—a raw, unforgiving reminder of what I went through. The memory of those men holding me down, the searing pain as they pulled... nausea wells up, and I force myself to breathe. I'm thankful, at least, that I passed out soon after. I shudder to think what else they would've done.
I shake the memories away, taking in the loose sweats and the long sleeve crop top that hides the worst of the wound on my shoulder and that covers the bruises on my ribs. I can barely move my right arm without wincing. The doctor suggested physical therapy, and I start this week, though the thought of leaving this room feels like climbing a mountain.
I let out a heavy sigh and reach for my phone lying on the bed. It's the one I thought was obliterated, smashed beyond recognition in what I'm now calling the "phone afterlife". Somehow, Chris had taken it upon himself to replace it—a brand new phone, all my old data transferred over. I didn't thank him. Why would I? Scarlett's the one who handed it to me. He couldn't even face me himself. Typical. And honestly, better that way.
I swipe the screen and freeze. A message from an unknown number. My stomach drops, my mind jumping to Natalia. What if she isn't dead? My thumb hovers over the message, a lump forming in my throat. With a deep breath, I open it.
And when I open the message, relief washes over me—sort of.
Unknown: Elizabeth, ¿podemos hablar hoy? –Nicolas
The relief is mixed with a sour twist of dread as I process the sender's name. Nicolas. Ah, just when I thought my dear father had decided to disappear from my life for good, here he is, popping back up like a bad plot twist. My thumb absently moves to the diamond necklace around my neck—the one he sent, an olive branch wrapped in diamonds. I haven't taken it off, though I can't say why. There's some twisted pull, some buried instinct to find a connection with the man I barely know. A part of me knows I should stay as far away from him as possible. He's in the mob, for God's sake. Any sane person would block the number. Logic says to stay far away, but logic and I haven't exactly been on speaking terms lately.
