Chapter 5
1126 Words
Miranda doesn’t look up from her phone when I step into her office.
“Close the door,” she says, her tone clipped.
The latch clicks into place, and somehow the sound feels heavier than it should—like I’ve sealed myself into a deal I can’t walk away from.
Her office smells faintly of her perfume, the kind you don’t find in a department store. Pricey. Assertive. A little suffocating. Sunlight spills across her glass desk, bouncing off a stack of untouched folders, but she stays bent over her phone, scrolling.
Finally, she gestures at the chair across from her without glancing up.
“You’re taking over the Westland account,” she says, voice as flat as the shine on her lipstick. “Big client. Very particular. I had someone else lined up, but…” She flicks her fingers in a careless wave. “She’s no longer an option.”
I blink. “Westland… as in Westland International?”
“The same,” she says, lifting her eyes to mine. “They’re merging with a subsidiary under Voss Holdings.”
The name drops into my stomach like a weight. Voss Holdings. Which means Damien. Which means Julian.
Her gaze narrows. “Is there a problem?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Good.” She leans back, studying me with that half-smirk that says she’s already calculated all the ways this could go wrong. “You’ll liaise directly with the Voss team. Whatever they want, you deliver. And Dawn—” she adds, letting my name hang in the air for a second, “don’t screw this up. They’re worth more to this firm than you are.”
Back at my desk, the project outline stares at me from the screen, but my mind refuses to stay put. The name Voss keeps echoing in my head, louder each time. The last time those brothers were in my orbit, nothing good came of it.
An email notification blinks into view.
No sender name. No subject.
Just four words:
You don’t know yet.
No signature. No attachment. Just the cursor pulsing in the corner like it’s keeping time with my pulse.
I grab my bag to head for the break room, planning to get some water, maybe shake off the unease. But when I open my bag, I freeze.
Sitting on top of my wallet is a deep red envelope. Heavy, expensive paper. I’m certain it wasn’t there a moment ago.
No name. No address.
I glance around—the office hums around me—phones ringing, keyboards clattering—but it all feels distant, muffled.
I tear it open.
A photograph slides out.
It’s me… leaving the gala last night. My hair’s loose around my shoulders, my dress catching the light. But behind me, just blurred enough to be deniable, is Damien’s shadow. Tall. Distinct. Too close.
On the back, in block letters so precise they could have been printed:
One brother will ruin you. The other already has.
The air feels thin, like my lungs have forgotten how to work. I shove the photo back in the envelope, my heartbeat ticking faster.
I take the stairs down two floors to clear my head, but when I step into the elevator to ride back up, a man slips in behind me.
Mid-forties. Navy suit tailored sharp enough to cut. Salt-and-pepper hair. His eyes flick over me like he’s taking inventory.
“You’re Dawn Harrington, right?” His voice is casual, almost warm—but there’s something under it.
I nod.
He studies me for a second, then shrugs like it’s nothing. “Didn’t think I’d see you back here.”
“Back where?” My voice comes out tighter than I intend.
The elevator dings, doors sliding open on the next floor. He steps out without answering, leaving only the faint scent of expensive aftershave and a pit in my stomach.
By mid-afternoon, caffeine is a necessity to survive the rest of the day. I slip out to the café across the street, telling myself I’m just stretching my legs.
As I wait for my coffee, I glance out the window—and stop.
A black van idles across from the building. Not unusual in the city. But the driver isn’t checking his phone or the traffic. He’s looking at me.
He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t look away.
I turn toward the counter, my pulse picking up. By the time I risk another look, the van is gone.
Crossing the street now feels like crossing open water
Back at my desk, there’s a small square box waiting dead-centre on my keyboard.
Inside: a single black chess piece. The queen.
No note. No explanation.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number.
“Hello?”
At first, silence. Then, faintly, a woman’s voice—so soft I almost missed it:
“You’re in the wrong game.”
The line goes dead before I could even speak.
Immediately, I rushed to the ladies’ room. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly as I splash cold water over my face, but when I glance up, my reflection isn’t what catches my attention.
Someone has drawn a tiny crown in red marker on the edge of the mirror.
Above it, in the same ink: WATCH.
I back out of the restroom, pulse hammering as I head straight for the elevators, deciding I’ve had enough for one day.
I’m halfway to the lobby when Julian appears from the side hallway, like he’s been waiting for me.
“Rough day?” he asks, his voice light but his eyes holding that same unshakable focus.
Before I can answer, his hand brushes mine. It could pass for an accident—except when I pull my hand away, something small and metallic presses into my palm.
A tiny silver key.
Scratched faintly into it: 24.
Julian doesn’t explain. He just smiles that slow, knowing smile and walks away.
The elevator doors slide open to the lobby, and Damien is there.
Leaning against the far wall. Arms crossed. Watching me like I’m the reason he showed up.
Before I can take a step, Julian emerges from the opposite hallway.
Neither looks at the other, but the air between them feels sharp, like it could cut skin.
Damien’s lips move silently: Not tonight.
Julian tilts his head, his own message just as quiet: You’ll regret it if you don’t.
Then they both start toward me—one from the left, one from the right.
Like, I’m the point of impact in a collision no one’s braking for.
And in that frozen moment, with nowhere to go, the truth locks around me like steel:
I’m not a player in their game.
I’m the prize.
And the game has already begun.
- Writer
