The secret life of Janet bello

chapter one

The sound of my phone ringing shattered the silence in my room. I had just gone to bed an hour ago, desperate for rest after another grueling day. Groaning, I reached for my phone, expecting some routine case or minor disruption.

The caller ID read Detective Layla. My stomach tightened. Calls from her at this hour only meant one thing: someone had been murdered.

With a sigh, I answered lazily, “Hello, Detective Layla. What’s the situation?”

Her voice was steady, but I could hear the undercurrent of tension. “Detective Laurent, we need you at 37 Brookeville. A young woman has been found dead—a gunshot wound to the head. Poor soul.”

The words barely registered, but the address struck me like a freight train. That was Janet’s residence.

“Janet…” I whispered, my breath catching. My chest tightened, and no amount of air could fill my lungs. The phone slipped from my hand, crashing to the floor.

I grabbed my jacket, not bothering to lock my door as I dashed out. I broke every speed limit, ignored every red light, and still, I couldn’t shake the pounding in my chest. This isn’t real, I told myself. It can’t be real.

I turned on the radio to drown out the panic clawing at my throat. The first thing I heard was a newscaster’s voice:

> “Upcoming Hollywood star Janet Bello has been found dead in her apartment with a gunshot wound to the head…”

I blanked out, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. “Janet can’t be dead,” I muttered aloud, as if saying it would make it true. “She isn’t.”

When I arrived at her apartment, the scene was chaos. Flashing lights, reporters, and onlookers surrounded the building. Yellow tape marked the entrance, police officers holding the growing crowd at bay.

Questions flew from every direction

“Who would do this to her?”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“Why would anyone kill her?”

I pushed through the chaos, Detective Layla guiding me toward the scene. Each step felt heavier, my mind racing with desperate prayers. Maybe this was all a misunderstanding. Maybe she was inside, waiting for me, ready to wrap her arms around me and laugh at my overreaction.

But then I saw her.

My world stopped.

She lay there, beautiful and serene as ever, but her skin was pale, her lips blue, her body lifeless.

“Janet…” My voice cracked as I knelt beside her. My hand trembled as I reached out, brushing her cold fingers. The reality hit me like a sledgehammer—she was gone.

“Please wake up,” I whispered, closing my eyes, praying for a miracle. My voice grew desperate. “Janet, please!” I clutched her hands, hoping against hope that this was a cruel joke, that she would open her eyes and smile at me.

But she didn’t.

The crowd stared at me, confusion written on their faces. I didn’t care. For two years, Janet and I had kept our relationship a secret. It was her decision—she wanted to protect our love from the media and her friends, to keep it safe from the world’s judgment. Now, none of it mattered. The woman I loved was dead, and I couldn’t hide my pain anymore.

I leaned in close, my voice trembling with rage. “I swear, Janet, I’ll make them pay. Whoever did this to you…I’ll make them suffer.”

The paramedics rolled her body away, the flashing cameras following every movement. She hated the spotlight, hated the intrusion into her private life. Now, even in death, they wouldn’t leave her alone.

Reality settled in like a cold weight on my chest. She was gone. My Janet was gone.

Driving back to my apartment, my mind replayed the night before. She had been so happy, glowing with pride after winning her award. She told me she loved me, shared her dreams for the future. She insisted on celebrating with her friends, refusing my offer to stay at my place.

I should have insisted. I should have protected her.

The guilt gnawed at me as I parked by the side of the road, leaning out of the car to take deep breaths. My stomach churned, and I wiped tears from my eyes. I didn’t cry often, but the grief was too much.

When I finally arrived at the office, I got to work immediately. I called Detective Layla instructing her to gather every detail about the previous night—the guest list, surveillance footage, statements, everything. I couldn’t rest until I knew what had happened.

Five people had been with Janet the night she died: Sharon Adebayo, Ben Jackson, James Stanley, Mary Idris, and Morris Benjamin. All of them were her friends. But something had gone wrong.

Janet was alone when she died. If everything had ended well, at least one of them would’ve stayed the night. What had happened? An argument? A betrayal?

I stared at their names, my mind racing. One of them knows the truth.

Could it have been a stalker? She’d mentioned being followed before, but she always downplayed it. Or was this a robbery gone wrong?

I didn’t have the answers yet, but I would.

The killer couldn’t hide forever. And when I found them, they would regret ever crossing my path.

I spread photos of Janet across my desk, her radiant smile staring back at me from every angle. Each picture told a story of her ambition, her passion, her strength. She deserved better than this.

For hours, I worked tirelessly, piecing together fragments of her last moments. Her friends’ names stared back at me from the list, each one a potential suspect.

And yet, beneath my rage and determination, a quiet fear lingered. What if I wasn’t ready to face the truth? What if the person responsible for Janet’s death was someone she loved or worse, someone she had forgiven?

But I couldn’t let those fears stop me. Janet deserved justice, and I would move heaven and earth to ensure she got it. I swear I will get justice for Janet