The reader
948 Words
Chapter 1
Gloria hated a lot of things; traffic, Mondays, people who chewed with their mouths open, but impatient readers topped the list. She pressed her lips into a thin line as she stared at her laptop screen, feeling her patience wear thin with every passing second.
His username blinked mockingly at her: “That Russian Mob.”
For four weeks, he had been relentless, leaving two, sometimes three comments a day, all asking for more chapters. Gloria had tried to be patient, telling herself he was just an overzealous fan and that it was flattering in a strange way. But thirty-six hours ago, he crossed a line she couldn’t ignore.
"Write this f*****g book before you regret not doing so! You have 24 hours to drop a chapter!"
Gloria leaned back in her chair, shaking her head at the sheer audacity of someone thinking they could threaten her into writing her own book.
Of all the readers she’d ever had, this one stood out for all the wrong reasons. “The Russian Mob.” What kind of name was that? She pictured some dramatic wannabe gangster in a dimly lit office, waiting for updates like his life depended on it. The image was ridiculous, but it didn’t fully settle the unease building in her chest.
Something about the way he demanded her writing didn’t sit right. It wasn’t just impatience, it felt personal. She tried to brush it off, blaming stress or lack of sleep, but the feeling lingered longer than she liked.
Curiosity got the better of her, and she clicked on his profile.
"Don’t ignore me, Gloria Ashford. You know what I want. Don’t make me wait."
Her stomach twisted at the sight of her full name. How could he know it when she had only ever written under a pen name?
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as her thoughts raced. Block him? Report him? Delete the book entirely? What do you even do in this situation?
Then came the knock.
Sharp and insistent, loud enough to make her freeze as her heart picked up speed. She wasn’t expecting anyone, especially not at this hour.
Another knock followed, louder than before.
“Who is it?” she called, trying to keep her voice steady despite the tension building in her chest.
Her phone buzzed in her hand, making her flinch. A message from Vanessa; a random funny video she didn’t bother opening.
Clutching her phone, she moved toward the door with cautious steps and bent slightly to peer through the keyhole.
There was nothing there.
The hallway outside was empty, and relief washed over her. She let out a small breath, already turning away, feeling a little foolish for letting her imagination run ahead of her.
Then she heard it.
A faint click broke the silence, the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock.
Her body went rigid as the realization hit, cold and immediate. Someone was opening her door!
The handle moved.
The door swung open.
Gloria’s breath caught as two men stood in the doorway, dressed in black suits that looked too sharp and expensive for this situation. They didn’t look like burglars; if anything, they looked like they belonged somewhere far from her cheap NYC apartment.
One of them smiled, and before she could react, a heavy bag was pulled over her head.
Darkness swallowed everything at once.
For a brief moment, she froze as her mind struggled to catch up with what was happening. Then instinct took over, and she struggled, kicking and twisting as her hands clawed at the fabric over her face.
A muffled scream forced its way out as panic surged through her.
Strong hands gripped her arms, holding her in place as her body began to feel heavy. Her movements slowed despite her efforts, the strength draining from her limbs in a way that didn’t make sense.
The world around her blurred as panic spiked harder, her body refusing to respond the way she needed it to.
The last thing she felt was herself being lifted.
***
Gloria’s head throbbed as consciousness slowly returned, the pain deep and pulsing as if it echoed through her skull. She groaned softly, her eyes fluttering open as light flooded her vision.
A smooth white ceiling came into focus, a large chandelier hanging above her and scattering light across the room in soft reflections.
She blinked slowly, trying to steady herself as awareness crept back in.
She was lying on something soft; far too soft to be anything in her apartment.
Pushing herself up carefully, she ignored the way her head protested and looked around. The room came into view piece by piece, with tall curtains, polished furniture, and everything arranged with precise perfection.
This was definitely not her apartment.
Her breathing quickened as the realization settled in.
She pressed her palms against her face as if that alone could wake her from whatever this was. “Wake up, Gloria,” she muttered under her breath, her voice dry.
“You talk to yourself?”
Her eyes snapped open at the sound of a voice that wasn’t her own.
A chair in the corner turned slowly, revealing a man who had clearly been there the entire time.
He looked to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, with close-shaved hair and a sharp jawline. A neatly trimmed mustache rested on his upper lip, and his features were striking in a way that drew attention without effort.
But it was his eyes that held her.
Green and steady, watching her with quiet focus as he tilted his head slightly, studying her reaction.
“Finally awake,” he said.
- Writer
