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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I blink awake, staring up at the dark ceiling as my alarm blares. Another night of restless sleep and those same nightmares replaying in my mind, twisting my stomach into knots. I turn my head and look down at my thumb, now an unsettling shade of pink where my nail used to be. It looks alien, raw, a disturbing reminder of everything that happened. Sometimes I swear I still feel that wrenching, phantom pain, like it's seared into my memory. With a frustrated sigh, I let my hand fall to my side, reaching over to silence the alarm.
Thursday. Who starts back at work on a Thursday? But then again, I have to start somewhere. I told Chris... well more like emailed him, that I wanted to go back to my normal routine. After a few emails back and forth he finally agreed to today. That was all before the queso incident. I shake my head at the memory.
I drag myself up, expecting to see Scarlett tangled up in the sheets next to me—only to find an empty bed. A faint wave of worry flickers in my mind. She had to have stayed out late last night, because Scarlett up early? That would be a new miracle.
I grab my phone and shoot her a quick message. "Alive?" Because let's be real, I'm suddenly paranoid, thanks to my father's unsettling threats. He made it clear he wasn't a fan of Scarlett, and the tension still lingers in my mind. No answer from her.
I let out a breath and toss my phone aside. Maybe she's with James. I mean, stranger things have happened, right? Or at least, they do in my world lately. With one last glance at my phone, I shake my head and pull myself out of bed. Whatever she's doing, wherever she is, it's better than getting wrapped up in my father's twisted web.
I pull myself together for the day, choosing burgundy dress pants and a white turtleneck. Flats feel like the safest option, considering my recent track record with injuries, and I let my hair fall loosely to frame my face, giving myself one last look in the mirror before heading to the kitchen.
The moment I walk in, I stop dead in my tracks. Chris is there, leaning against the island, his blue suit jacket draped over a chair, his tie hanging undone, and his white shirt half-unbuttoned. He's holding a newspaper like he's stepped straight out of some 1950s morning scene. If I wasn't so angry at him still, I'd probably be drooling.
Then my mind drifts back to the fiasco with Rebecca. I still cringe just thinking about it. Why am I reliving that horror show on repeat? And why does he have to look so... infuriatingly good doing something as mundane as reading a newspaper? Who even reads those anymore?
Chris, naturally, senses me lurking. He glances up, a sheepish smile appearing on his face. It's... almost charming, damn him. But I'm still furious. And hurt. Hearing he's wrapped up with Rebecca at her place half the time, even after everything? I force myself to remember it doesn't matter. We broke up. He's free to do whatever he wants.
Still, my pride stings.
"Good morning," he says, voice tentative, like he's testing the waters. The slight rasp in his tone makes it sound softer, warmer than usual, and I have to remind myself to stay detached.
