Send in those gems people!!💎 Your support means everything to me 💗
Celeste turned around to look behind her, her heart missed a beat as she did. the man was still there. Leaning against the lamppost like he belonged to the night.Celeste kept walking, her boots loud against the wet pavement. She didn’t run. Didn’t dare look back more than once. But her pulse was a drumbeat, steady and insistent, thrumming beneath her skin.She rounded a corner onto Hawthorne and pulled her hoodie lower over her brow. A coffee shop blinked with flickering neon across the street, but she ignored it. Too exposed. She needed to see if he was really following or if paranoia was playing tricks again.She crossed the street. Two blocks west. One north. No obvious footsteps behind her—but something in her gut wouldn’t unclench.She ducked into a side alley behind a boarded-up bookstore, pausing behind a rusted dumpster. Inhaling slowly, she pulled her phone from her coat pocket and unlocked it with a shaky thumb. The battery was low. Typical. But she didn’t need long.She op
Annabelle lay in bed the next morning, staring up at the white ceiling of her bedroom. Sunlight crept past the curtains, dust motes dancing in the slanting beams. But none of it warmed her. The world outside continued, indifferent to the confusion unraveling inside her.She touched her lips. They still tingled, as though Devon’s kiss had etched itself into her skin.It wasn’t planned. It hadn’t even felt romantic. It had been brief—so brief—but it carried the weight of everything they hadn’t said since Damian’s death. Grief. Guilt. Loneliness. Maybe even longing. But not love. Not yet. Or maybe not at all.She then turned to her side and hugged a pillow tightly to her chest. Her heart was unsteady, her mind even more so.It wasn’t supposed to be like this.For days, she had clung to Devon like a lifeline, needing his presence just to stay afloat. He was the only one who seemed to see her grief, not tiptoe around it like it was something contagious. But now, everything had shifted.Tha
Benjamin Hamilton stood by the tall window of his study, staring out at the hazy sprawl of Manhattan's skyline. He held a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, untouched, the amber liquid catching the light like molten glass. He hadn’t tasted a drop, not yet. He was listening. To the silence. Something had shifted. It had been creeping up in small doses—missed meetings, vague excuses, texts from Devon that felt mechanical. Benjamin had dismissed them at first. Devon had lost someone. They all had. But the boy was drifting now, and Benjamin could feel it. His phone buzzed on the desk. He checked it. No name. Just the number. Benjamin frowned. Then, with a casual motion, he typed in his son's number and hit dial. It rang twice before Devon picked up. "Dad?" "Good afternoon, Devon," Benjamin said calmly, settling into the leather chair behind his desk. "How are you holding up?" "I'm okay," came the answer. Not convincing, but not weak either. "I noticed you missed the advisory meeting
Celeste stared at the screen longer than necessary, the cursor blinking like a taunt. Devon hadn’t responded to her last message—just the silent notification that it had been read. Nothing more. She’d expected this, but still, a part of her hoped for something. Anger. Fear. Anything. Her tiny apartment was dim, lit only by the blue glare of her laptop. The air smelled faintly of takeout and burnt coffee. Piles of unpaid bills cluttered the side table. The lease renewal had been denied two weeks ago—no surprise. She was two months behind. Three years ago, she’d made headlines across the country. Her exposé on Senator Crawley’s son had been her golden ticket—splashing across news sites, guest panel invites, interviews on daytime TV. For one strange, glittering moment, she mattered. Then came the fallout. The retraction. The lawsuits. Her name smeared. And the second article, rushed and sloppily sourced, had been the nail in the coffin. The Crawleys made sure of it. That one mistak
Devon stared at the email like it might change if he blinked long enough. But it didn’t. The message from Micheal was still there, the subject line cold and brutal: THE BIG ONE. He sat in the parked car, the engine off, street sounds muffled beyond the windshield. The P*F stared back at him from his phone screen, its contents still sinking in. Celeste wasn’t just a reporter with a nose for scandal—she was a predator. And worse, she had been circling Damian long before any of this came to light. She was at the diner that same night they had met. That same place. His grip tightened around the phone. A chill settled deep in his chest, one that had nothing to do with the spring air outside. Devon swiped back to the image in the report. Celeste in a trench coat, barely lit by the hotel entrance. Then the still from the gas station’s security footage—her car, unmistakably hers, just yards from the diner. He closed his eyes, and for a flicker of a moment, he was back in that memory. Da
Devon and Annabelle Lawson talked about everything and nothing. Her old college roommates. A movie she watched last week and couldn’t finish. The overpriced croissants from a new bakery she hated but kept buying from anyway. It was light and easy, like resurfacing after being underwater too long. After lunch, he drove her through Central Park, winding through familiar streets until they reached a quiet overlook. The car sat idle, the world outside slow and green. “Can't remember when last I got to feel free like this,” Annabelle said, her voice barely above a murmur. “Me too.” Devon replied. Annabelle then leaned her head against his shoulder. “Do you think,” she began, hesitating, “things could ever feel... good again?” Devon wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her gently. “They will. It just takes time.” She turned toward him suddenly, her face close to his. In the quiet, it didn’t feel wrong. And when she leaned forward and kissed him, he didn’t pull away. Not immedia