Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
She’s still chuckling at something I said about one of the goats trying to eat my sleeve, her eyes bright in a way they weren’t this morning.
Happy.
That’s what she is.
And, Christ, I like it.
More than that, I like knowing I’m the reason that tight, watchful look has eased from her expression. I like that somewhere between the petting zoo, her naming a goat Kevin, and the two of us arguing over whether alpacas are creepy, she started to relax.
Spending the day with her felt uncomplicated in a way I can’t explain.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to the penthouse.
Chey steps out first, still smiling, before swinging toward me. “Just so you know, you’ll forever be that guy who took me on a zoo date.”
With a smirk, I follow her out. “You loved it. Don’t even try to tell me differently.”
“I did not love it.”
“Please. You fed a goat and named him Kevin.”
“Tell me he didn’t look like a Kevin.”
I laugh and shake my head. “He did.”
I don’t get more than a step when I spot a box sitting on the floor a few feet from the elevator. It’s black, glossy, and wrapped with a big silver bow. Every ounce of amusement drains out of me as the fine hairs at the nape of my neck prickle.
Chey follows my line of sight. “Did you get a delivery?”
I move without thinking, stepping in front of her just enough to block the view.
“Looks like it,” I say, keeping my tone light even though I’m already on alert. “The front desk drops packages off all the time.”
I crouch and turn the box just enough to check for a label, but there’s nothing.
No name, delivery slip, or card attached to the ribbon.
My muscles tense. “Do me a favor and stay over there.”
“Knox.” Concern floods her voice.
“It’s probably nothing to worry about, but just let me check it out, okay?”
There’s a beat of silence. “Yeah.”
I undo the ribbon carefully and then lift the lid, pushing past tissue paper. I keep telling myself that I’m overreacting. Gifts are sent to me all the time from sponsors or companies hoping I’ll be photographed with their products. It’s part of the job.
At first, my brain doesn’t fully process what I’m seeing.
Then it clicks.
A shattered picture frame with glass cracked in all directions, splintered like someone drove a fist straight through the center of it. Beneath the broken glass is a photo of Chey standing beside Dakota on a red carpet, both smiling for the cameras.
My stomach drops. It’s not just creepy, it’s violent.
A message wrapped up like a gift and left in a place where she’s supposed to be safe.
A piece of paper rests on top of the broken glass. I pick it up, knowing I’m not going to like whatever’s written on it.
The words are in thick, jagged handwriting.
You broke my heart.
Now I’m going to break yours.
Ice floods my veins. This isn’t heartbreak or a dramatic plea for attention.
It’s a threat. A very real one.
Chey takes a step forward. “What is it?”
Even though I try to cover the note, I’m too late. Her gaze slides past my hand to the frame in the box, and the color drains from her face so quickly it’s like someone flipped a switch.
“Oh my God…” Her hand flies to her mouth. “No… No, that’s—”
I set the note back in the box. My heart thunders as every instinct snaps to attention with the emerging pattern.
Flowers at the hotel.
The punch outside my building.
Possibly slipping into the Railers event.
And now a shattered picture frame and note.
This guy isn’t spiraling, he’s escalating. And I’m done pretending otherwise.
I straighten and turn toward Chey, only to find her rooted in place. She’s staring at the box with wide eyes, as if it might detonate at any moment.
“Chey,” I say, wanting to capture her attention.
Her gaze lifts to mine, and there’s fear in it now. Not discomfort or unease. But actual fear.
“He… He never…” She swallows hard. “He never acted like this before.”
I close the distance between us and pull her into my arms before she can say anything else. She fists the front of my sweatshirt, clinging as if she needs something solid to keep her upright.
I tighten my hold. “It’s okay,” I murmur, even though I know it’s not true. “I’ve got you.”
“I can’t believe he’d do something like this. I can’t believe he sent that here.”
And there it is. The part that makes this so much worse. It’s not just a threat. It’s a violation. He managed to get something inside my home, in a place where she should feel safe.
“He’s not…” She shakes her head against me. “He’s not like this.”
My jaw locks because, yeah, he is. Maybe she hadn’t seen it before or he’d just been better at hiding it when he still thought he was in control.