Novel-novel oleh Danica Kiernan

Chapter 8 - The Pull and Snap Alie I don’t realize I’ve checked my phone a dozen times until the thirteenth buzz makes me jump. Tomorrow, ten a.m.—Black & Co. offices, West Tower. Bring your notes from the marketing project. No greeting. No sign-off. Just a time, a place, a directive. I should say no. Instead, I screenshot the map and set an alarm. Morning comes too fast. I tell myself it’s work, not whatever else it could be. I pick the most neutral outfit I own—something professional enough to armor me but soft enough that it doesn’t look like armor. I tug at the cuff of my sleeves, smoothing down my shirt, remembering the gentle touch of his hand, which causes a shiver down my spine. The subway ride feels longer than usual; every reflection in the windows looks like someone watching. The West Tower lobby smells like cedar polish and money. Security waves me through after I give my name. Mr. Black is expecting you. Hearing it out loud makes my stomach tighten. The elevat

AlieThe morning light is too clean, too sharp, like the sun is trying to scrub the night out of me.I lie there longer than I should, watching it creep across the wall. Everything looks ordinary—the same old curtains, the same quiet apartment—but my body doesn’t believe it. My chest still feels tight, my pulse quick for no reason I can name.Coffee first. Always coffee. If I move through the steps—filter, water, switch—I can make the morning mechanical, safe.The mug warms my hands, but it doesn’t chase away the echo of that café: his voice, calm and steady, and the way my skin still hums where he touched me.The place smells faintly of rain even though the windows are closed. That’s what gets me first. Not the missing time from last night, not the half-formed dreams, but the smell. It shouldn’t be here.I try to shake it off. There’s work to do. I open my laptop and bury myself in spreadsheets, emails, numbers that never stop adding up.But little things keep tugging at me—the chair

AlieThe elevator hums the whole way up to my floor, that faint fluorescent buzz that gets under your skin and won’t let go. My reflection in the brushed metal looks pale and drawn, like I left half of myself back in that café.I can still feel him.The warmth of his hand over mine, that jolt of something sharp and electric that didn’t feel like simple contact. It felt like recognition — like the moment you realize the stranger in front of you has already imagined this.I hate that I didn’t pull away faster.Inside my apartment, everything looks the same. My half-burned candle. The dishes I didn’t wash. The sweater I dropped over the chair this morning. Normal, quiet, safe. Except… it isn’t. Not tonight.I drop my bag onto the counter and dig through it until my fingers find the card.Slick black. Embossed silver lettering. Mr. Black.No email. No company name. Just a number.I turn it over, half expecting some message on the back — a signature, an instruction, something. Nothing. It’

ALIEI lie there for a long time, clutching the sheets, forcing myself to breathe past the buzzing in my veins. It's just a dream, I tell myself. Just a dream bleeding into real life because I'm stressed, because my brain can't tell the difference anymore.But the cologne doesn't fade. It sits in the air like a fingerprint I can't wipe away.Finally, I throw the blanket off and stumble to the kitchen. I need water. I need something cold, grounding, ordinary. The floor creaks under my feet, familiar, but even that sound sets my nerves jangling.The glass shakes in my hand as I drink.When I set it down, my phone buzzes on the counter. I nearly drop the glass. A calendar reminder flashes bright on the screen:Vendor Meeting – 9:00 a.m. – West End Café – Contact: Mr. Black.I stare at it until the letters blur.It isn't unusual, not really. Virtual assistant jobs sometimes want bodies in chairs, faces at tables. Plenty of people I know have handled them before. But this would be my first

CAINECoincidences have served their purpose. The tie in her drawer. The wine on her counter. The key in the velvet bag. She's off balance now, second-guessing herself at every turn. That's where I want her. That's where she's pliable.But she's stubborn. Defiant. I saw it yesterday, the way her lip curled when she typed in the lingerie sizes, the way she almost rolled her eyes at the subscription list that was tailored only for her. She thinks she can keep me at a distance if she laughs about it, if she pretends it's all absurd.She's wrong.It's time to take away the absurdity. To give her something undeniable.I've already scheduled the task for tomorrow:Vendor Meeting – 9:00 a.m.Location: West End Café, corner booth.Contact: Mr. Black.Simple. Formal. Professional. She won't question it—not right away. She'll walk in expecting to meet a vendor, clipboard in hand, already rehearsing polite small talk.And I'll be there, waiting.Not in the shadows. Not behind a screen. In front

ALIEThe Uber smells faintly of pine air freshener and wet wool. The heater blasts against my skin, thawing me out, but I can't shake the chill crawling under my skin.I stare out the rain-smeared window, forcing myself not to look back. I don't want to see him still standing there. I don't want to know.The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Rough night?" he asks, his voice kind enough but edged with the weary disinterest of someone who's seen everything.I let out a laugh that's more like a sigh. "You could say that."My phone buzzes in my lap. I almost don't look, but habit wins. It's a notification. I frown. Low storage warning.Weird. I cleared space just last week.Another buzz. Another notification. Unknown Device Connected.The blood drains from my face. My thumb shakes as I tap the screen, but the message vanishes, replaced by my home screen like nothing happened.My reflection stares back at me from the dark glass. Wet hair plastered to my cheeks, mascara smudged

DanteThe morning starts with logistics, which is how I prefer my days and my people.Lyra prefers coffee before being briefed—she makes that clear with a glare that could file a grievance.“The glam team arrives at nine,” I tell her.“Do they do exorcisms?” she asks, cradling her mug. “Because I might need that first.”“They’ll handle hair, makeup, and wardrobe. They’ll also make conversation,” I warn. “Ignore half of what you hear.”“Noted. Do they know this isn’t a wedding?” she asks.“They do now.”When the team shows up—three women and one man with cheekbones that could start wars—the penthouse fills with perfume and gossip.“Mr. Marcellus never brings dates,” the blonde one whispers while curling Lyra’s hair. “Well, not to charity events. He’s… selective.”The stylist doing her makeup murmurs, “Selective? He was practically engaged to Claudia Verin for two years.”“Was not,” the first says. “That was PR.”“Still counts,” the man adds. “She’s on the list tonight, by the way. Fron

LyraAt six-thirty, a black car idles outside our building like it knows more about my life than I do. Rhoades texts downstairs and I say goodbye to our stubborn little apartment with two bags and a joke for Maya I don’t feel (“Don’t let Cass feed you only pasta”), then step into leather that smells like competence.By seven, we glide through a lobby that’s pretending not to watch. The elevator is private—the kind with a key and opinions. When the doors open, the world is all window.The penthouse is a cathedral of glass and quiet: dark floors, pale walls, the city laid flat under our feet like a map that forgot to argue. It should feel cold. It doesn’t. It feels like a hand pressed to your sternum, checking for proof of life.Dante is already there, tie gone, sleeves folded once with the kind of precision that says I don’t loosen; I reconfigure. His gaze goes to my bags—two, both defiant—and then to me.“Welcome,” he says.“It’s very… high,” I say, because beautiful would be surrende

LyraBy lunch the next day, Adami has taped a red notice over the first one like lipstick on a bruise. PAY IN FULL BY FRIDAY. He underlines Friday twice, in case the day needed bullying.Maya doesn’t cry. She goes small around the kettle and says she can pick up an extra night, and I picture her at three a.m. convincing her bones that tips are a fair trade for a spine. The math is easy: there isn’t enough month left to bargain with.I text Rhoades. We’ll proceed.He replies like a butler in a spy movie. 4:00 today. Conference B. Counsel confirmed.I pick my dress like armor—black, not to be clever, just to be invisible. On the way, I swing by Maya’s work and press Cassandra’s spare key and bus fare into her palm. “If he tries anything, go to Cass’s and text me,” I say, light as I can make it, like a balloon that doesn’t know about gravity.Conference B has the decorum of a wedding nobody is allowed to call a wedding. Two stacks of paper. Two pens that look like they grew up wanting to

Chapter 3 — Terms of SurrenderDanteLyra steps in like the room might try something and she’d enjoy stopping it.“Ms. Quinn,” I say.“Mr. Marcellus.” Her gaze flicks once over the office—windows, books, the black piano I never play—then back to me. The ink-blue dress has dried at the hem and darkened to midnight. It suits her; she looks like a decision.“Water?” I ask.“I’ll live dangerously.” She sits without waiting for permission and crosses an ankle. The move’s efficient, not coy.“Downstairs,” I say, “you were right.”She tilts her head. “About what? The part where your VP tried to talk to the room instead of me, or the part where ‘legacy’ sounds like ‘you don’t count anymore’?”“The promise,” I say. “That we shouldn’t make what we can’t keep.”“Mm.” She props her elbow on the chair arm, fingers light at her mouth. “It wasn’t philosophy. It was a reminder. Customers are humans, not line items.”“Humans are line items with hearts,” I say. “The heart is what gets the invoice paid.

LyraThe eviction notice is printed on paper the color of hospital light—too clean for something that dirty.MAYA QUINN: FIVE DAYS TO CURE OR VACATE, it says, as if eviction were a fever you could ice with coins. Below, Mr. Adami has signed with his cheerful, murderous loop. He added a smiley face once on someone else’s; the tenants in my building still tell that story like a ghost tale.Maya’s backpack thumps onto the kitchen counter and knocks the notice sideways. “Don’t look at me like that,” she says, sour and sleepy. “I’m pulling night shifts now. I’m helping.”“Shifts that pay in tips and sore feet,” I say, smoothing the paper that won’t smooth. “It’s not enough. I’ll make a call on my break. We can ask for an extension.”Her mouth marshals a smile that trips at the start line. “He only gives extensions when he thinks you can catch up. He doesn’t think we can.” She opens the fridge. Its light, a tired eye, stares at three eggs and a jar of mustard. “You’ll be late.”She’s right.

The city looked honest from forty floors up.Glass didn’t lie; it reflected. It threw your face back at you when you leaned too close and dared you to name what stared. I’d built my headquarters with that in mind—angles so clean the night slid off them, windows that turned the skyline into an obedient double. Everything that could be seen could be managed.Inside, the room was all velvet and hush, expensive laughter stitched like thread through the seams. Elias had chosen the private club for the view and the clientele: men who liked to imagine they ruled the city because they could see it. Decanters sweated on low tables. The jazz was quiet enough to eavesdrop over.“Marcellus,” Elias drawled, turning his whiskey in a tight circle as if charming a snake. “Tell me something real. You’ve had the same expression on since we were twenty. We’re not at the academy anymore. You can unclench.”I smiled because that was easier than telling him that men like us stayed alive by pretending we di