CHAPTER 7
708 Words
Eva had been warned before.
Not with words, but with looks—men who paused too long, conversations that stopped when she entered rooms, doors that closed gently but firmly in her face. Power had always announced itself quietly around her, and she had learned early how to listen.
She learned that lesson in her twenties.
Back then, Eva had not been rich. She had been precise.
She remembered sitting across from a boardroom full of men twice her age, their suits darker than their intentions. They had smiled indulgently when she spoke, dismissed her ideas with soft laughter, called her ambitious as though it were a flaw.
She had walked out that day without raising her voice.
Three months later, their company collapsed.
Eva did not celebrate. She never did. Winning, to her, was simply the natural outcome of preparation.
That memory surfaced now as she stood alone in her living room, the phone heavy in her hand. The call had come less than an hour ago. No name. No greeting.
Just a voice.
You’re asking questions you shouldn’t.
Eva had listened without interruption.
This ends if you let it.
Then the line had gone dead.
She had not moved immediately. Fear required acknowledgment before it could be dismissed, and Eva believed in honesty—even with herself.
She was afraid.
Not of death.
Of repetition.
Loss, she had learned, was not a single event. It was a pattern.
She moved toward the bar and poured herself a drink she did not intend to finish. The liquid sat untouched as she stared through the glass, her reflection fractured.
Her husband had once accused her of being distant.
“You plan too much,” he had said, half-smiling. “You never let things just happen.”
She had looked at him then, surprised. “Things don’t just happen,” she replied. “They’re allowed.”
He had laughed.
Now he was gone.
Eva set the glass down and picked up her coat. Sitting with threats had never been her way. Understanding them was.
***
The drive was deliberate. She took the longer route, watching her mirrors, noting the cars that stayed too close, the ones that didn’t. Old habits resurfaced easily.
She parked outside a quiet building—unremarkable, almost invisible.
Inside, the man behind the desk looked up, startled.
“Mrs. Harrington,” he said, standing too quickly. “I wasn’t expecting—”
“I know,” Eva replied. “That’s why I’m here.”
He swallowed. “You shouldn’t be.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
She took the chair opposite him without invitation. “Someone called me today.”
His face tightened.
“They warned me,” she continued calmly. “Which means I’m closer than they’d like.”
“You need to stop,” he said quietly. “This is bigger than you.”
Eva smiled faintly. “That’s what they used to say.”
She leaned forward. “Tell me who’s nervous.”
The man hesitated, then shook his head. “I can’t.”
Eva nodded. “Then tell me who’s watching.”
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, he said, “Everyone.”
She stood.
“That will do,” she said. “For now.”
As she turned to leave, he spoke again.
“They didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “They meant to measure you.”
Eva paused at the door.
“And?” she asked.
“They haven’t decided yet,” he replied.
Eva stepped outside into the night air, her breath steady.
They were watching.
Good.
Back in her car, she allowed herself one moment—just one—to think of her son. Of the boy who had inherited her discipline and his father’s loyalty. Of the choice he had made without her consent.
“I taught you better than this,” she murmured softly.
Then her phone buzzed.
A message.
We know where you are.
Eva did not respond.
She started the engine and drove home, already reorganizing her life in her mind—contacts to cut, alliances to test, truths to uncover.
This was no longer about grief.
This was about control.
And Eva Harrington had never lost for long.
- Writer
