Two.
Two hours of being a creep. Two hours of just following Axeyl—no, Jun—like some deranged fangirl with a trench coat and a magnifying glass.
Except I’m not a fangirl. And I’m not wearing a trench coat. And my magnifying glass? Well, it’s an earpiece that occasionally makes my ear itch like crazy.
Axeyl’s arm is around the culprit’s daughter, Sharin. The infamous “princess of the week.” She’s dressed head-to-toe in Gucci, clutch sparkling like it could blind someone from twenty paces. Hair in a high ponytail that Ariana Grande would probably sue her for copying, glittering pins twinkling in the sunlight.
“I want that one!” she squeals, pointing to a handbag inside the glass display. Her perfectly manicured nail taps the glass like she’s ordering food at a drive-thru.
If she bounces
