Chapter Three
965 Words
The newsroom no longer sounded like a workplace.
It sounded like a battlefield.
Phones shrieked without pause. Reporters shouted across desks. Producers argued with legal teams. Social media alerts chimed so rapidly they blurred into a metallic chorus.
And at the center of it all stood Elara Quinn motionless, pale, and trying very hard to remember how to breathe.
Engaged? Martin croaked beside her, his voice cracking. You’re engaged to Adrian Voss?
I am absolutely not engaged to Adrian Voss.
Then why is every major network in the country running it as fact?!
Onscreen, Adrian remained perfectly composed despite the media frenzy.
I will not be answering personal questions at this time, he said calmly. A formal statement will follow.
Personal.
As if announcing an engagement to a journalist who had just accused him of building an empire on blood were the most natural thing in the world.
The broadcast cut, replaced by panels of stunned commentators.
Elara grabbed her phone and dialed the unknown number that had been messaging her.
Straight to voicemail.
Her pulse hammered harder.
Control. This was about control.
He wasn’t reacting to her story.
He was rewriting it.
Martin dragged both hands through his thinning hair. Do you realize what this looks like? Either you fabricated the article, or you’re sleeping with your subject!
I’ve never even met the man until this morning.
Well, now the entire planet thinks you’re marrying him!
Her screen lit up with incoming calls, media outlets, colleagues, numbers she didn’t recognize.
She silenced them all.
I need to go home, she said suddenly.
Martin blinked. Now?
Yes. Something isn’t right.
The photograph burned at the back of her mind.
The messages.
The envelope.
And the terrifying certainty in Adrian’s eyes.
She grabbed her coat and left before Martin could argue.
The elevator ride felt endless.
By the time she stepped onto her floor, a strange stillness greeted her, the kind that prickled instinct before logic could catch up.
Her neighbor’s door was closed.
No television murmured behind the walls.
No footsteps.
Just quiet.
Too quiet.
Her stomach tightened.
As she approached her apartment, she noticed it immediately.
The door wasn’t fully shut.
It rested slightly ajar.
Every nerve in her body went taut.
Slowly, carefully, she pushed it open.
The smell hit first.
Not smoke.
Not chemicals.
Dust.
Splintered wood.
Violation.
Her living room looked like a storm had detonated inside it.
Drawers gutted.
Couch cushions sliced open.
Glass glittering across the floor like frozen rain.
Her bookshelf lay collapsed, novels torn and scattered.
For a moment, she couldn’t move.
Couldn’t think.
All she could hear was the roar of her pulse.
Someone had been here.
Someone had touched everything.
Hello? she called, her voice sharper than intended.
Silence answered.
Still she moved deeper inside, each step cautious.
The kitchen was wrecked.
Cabinets hung open.
Plates shattered.
Her bedroom door creaked as she pushed it inward.
Her mattress had been flipped.
Clothes dragged from the closet.
Even the picture frames had been smashed, as if whoever did this wanted destruction itself to send a message.
But beneath the fear, another realization slowly surfaced.
Nothing obvious was missing.
Her television remained mounted.
Jewelry untouched.
Cash still in the ceramic bowl by the bed.
This wasn’t theft.
It was a search.
Cold dread slid down her spine.
She rushed toward her desk.
And stopped.
The space where her laptop always sat was empty.
No charger.
No external drives.
Gone.
Her breath left in a shaky exhale.
Months of research.
Encrypted files.
Backup notes.
Sources.
All of it lived on that machine.
No, she whispered.
Her hands trembled as she pulled out her phone and dialed building security.
When the guard arrived minutes later, his expression shifted from confusion to alarm.
Ms. Quinn, did you authorize anyone to enter?”
Does it look like I did?
He surveyed the wreckage.
We’ll review the cameras immediately.
But even as he spoke, she knew what he would find.
Nothing.
Men like Adrian Voss did not leave evidence.
The thought struck her before she could stop it.
Adrian.
Had he done this?
Or someone trying to protect him?
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Her throat tightened as she opened the message.
You should learn to lock your doors.
Ice flooded her veins.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
Was this you?
The reply came instantly.
If it were me, Ms. Quinn, you wouldn’t still have an apartment.
A chill crawled up her spine.
Another message appeared.
Check your backups.
Her breath hitched.
She rushed to the small cabinet where she kept her external drive, the emergency copy she updated weekly.
The drawer was open.
Empty.
Panic surged now, hot and suffocating.
They hadn’t just taken her laptop.
They had erased her safety net.
Her knees felt suddenly weak.
What did they take? the guard asked.
My work, she said faintly.
He nodded sympathetically. We’ll notify the police.
Police.
The word felt useless.
This was too precise.
Too deliberate.
Her phone buzzed again.
Print another story about me and next time it won’t be your apartment they tear apart.
Her stomach dropped.
Before she could respond, a final message arrived.
You’re in deeper than you realize.
She stared at the words, a terrible understanding unfolding inside her.
This wasn’t retaliation.
It was strategy.
Strip her of information.
Corner her.
Isolate her.
A sudden memory surfaced, Adrian’s voice that morning.
You are stepping into a war you don’t understand.
For the first time since this began,
Fear truly settled in.
Not sharp.
Not frantic.
But heavy.
Real.
As she stood in the ruins of her home, another message appeared.
This one from a different number.
Just three words.
Move in tonight.
Her heart slammed.
A final text followed.
Protection isn’t optional anymore. A.V.
- Writer
