Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
The coffee finishes. I press the plunger down slowly, watching the grounds sink. Pour it black into a ceramic mug and take a sip.
Perfect.
Everything is perfect today.
I look good, too. Tom Ford suit. Charcoal grey, three-piece. Fit is perfect. Silk tie in deep burgundy. Shoes are Church's, polished to a mirror shine.
All three monitors show the Idaho Falls Greenbelt trail at different locations.
I lean closer, as a figure appears on the riverwalk that follows the Snake River trail. I hold my breath, waiting to recognize—yes. It's her. Scarletta is so punctual these days. Always right on time. She's wearing black leggings and a matching fitted tank top. She's got her hair pulled back in a high ponytail that swings when she runs.
She looks healthy.
Better than healthy, she looks absolutely gorgeous.
Like someone who has her life together.
I take a sip of coffee, studying her form as she breaks into a slow jog. Posture is good. Breathing steady. She runs like she's training for something, not just passing time.
This is progress.
Real progress.
She hasn't logged into DarkDesires in six months. Not once. I check daily—her account sits dormant, followers still asking where she went, when she's coming back, if everything is okay.
Radio silence.
At first, I was concerned. Wondered if I broke something fundamental. If the maze, the blood, watching me kill Volk—if it shattered her completely.
But then I realized… she's not broken.
She's stacking.
Writers do this. They go dark for months, building up material, refining their craft. Then they come back with something massive. Something that redefines their entire body of work.
That's what she's doing.
She must be.
She is.
She's writing our story. The truth of what happened between us dressed up as pitch-black fiction. The auction. The cabin. Story Island. All of it.
She just hasn't shared it yet.
Not because she's ashamed.
Because it's not ready.
Because she's not ready.
That's all. That's why.
On the screen, Scarletta's pace has intensified. The morning light catches the sheen of sweat forming at her temples. She's pushing herself today—harder than usual.
I watch the fluidity of her stride, the controlled aggression in each footfall. This isn't the tentative jogging of someone going through motions. This is someone running toward something. Or away from it.
Either way, it's movement.
It's life.
It's so far removed from the girl who used to sit hunched over her laptop for sixteen hours straight, forgetting to eat, forgetting the world existed beyond her fiction.
When she's done, she'll go home, shower, put on something cute, do her hair and makeup, then walk the four blocks to Cornerstone.
She'll order a latte.
She'll sit in the corner with her laptop, watching the crowd of people ebb and flow as the hours pass.
Then she'll leave, go to the gym and continue her day like the maze never happened. Like the auction was a dream.
Spoiler alert, Scarletta. It wasn't. And it's time I helped you remembered that.
Just… a reminder.
That I'm still here.
That I still want her. Still need her.
That it's time to begin again.
I finish my coffee, rinse the mug, set it in the sink.
Today is a special day.
Today, Scarletta learns I haven't forgotten her.
That I will never forget her.
That she is unforgettable.
Chapter 3
Scarletta
The early August evening is still warm when I walk through downtown Idaho Falls toward the pizza place. My sundress is light yellow—pretty, feminine, carefully chosen to signal available but not desperate. The fabric swishes against my thighs with each step. I've got my hair down, curled at the ends. Makeup applied with actual effort instead of the bare minimum I usually manage.
I look normal.
Like someone who goes on dates.
Like someone who hasn't spent six months unable to come without thinking about a man murdering someone.
Marty is waiting inside Provisions Pizza when I push through the door. He waves immediately, standing up from the booth with this eager-puppy energy that should be endearing but mostly just makes me tired.
He's tall. Blond. Clean-shaven. His yoga-instructor body is obvious even under his casual button-down. We met yesterday during the post-class cool-down when he asked if I wanted to grab coffee sometime. I said yes because I'm supposed to. Because normal girls say yes when normal guys ask them out.
Because I need to prove I'm not completely ruined.
"Scarletta! Hey, you look amazing." He gestures to the booth seat across from him.
"Thanks." I slide in, setting my purse beside me. "Sorry if I'm a little late."
"No, you're perfect. Right on time, actually."
I'm starving. Like actually hungry for the first time in weeks. When the waitress comes over, I order the specialty—a pizza pie with extra cheese and pepperoni. Marty gets a salad because of course he does.
"So I was thinking after dinner, maybe we could grab drinks at that new place on the river?" He's leaning forward, hands folded on the table. Engaged. Present.
"Oh, I can't stay out late tonight." The lie comes automatically. "Early morning tomorrow."
"No problem! We can keep it casual."