Even with the locks changed, Celine couldn't breathe. Her penthouse, once her sanctuary, now felt like a glass cage, cracked and watching her crumble.
She hadn't told Stacy. She couldn't. The girl was like a younger sister, always worried about her.
But the messages kept coming.
First, the trashed penthouse.
Then… the photos.
A printed photo of her sitting in her office. From outside the window. Another one, Stacy walking to her car.
Each arrived in a plain envelope. No return address. No note.
Just silence and a target.
She clutched one of the photos in her trembling hands, her red manicured nails curling into the edge of the glossy paper. Her heart thudded in her ears.
Someone was watching her.
And worse… someone knew how to get close.
The shadows in her apartment grew longer. The silence louder. She stood by the window, eyes scanning the street below, every flicker of movement setting her nerves on fire.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
Again.
She didn't pick.
She just stared.
Breathing shallow.
They weren't just after her.
They were warning her.
And that scared her more than anything.
A noise yanked her from sleep.
Not the distant hum of the city, not the ticking of her designer clock.
Something else.
Close. Sharp. A crash.
Celine sat upright, pulse thundering in her ears. Her bedroom was cloaked in darkness, only the silver gleam of moonlight spilling through the curtains. She reached for her phone, dead.
The power was out.
Another crash. Glass.
Her breath caught.
She slid out of bed, heart hammering, and pulled her silk night robe tight around her. Slowly, barefoot, she tiptoed toward the hall.
Voices. Low. Male.
Her blood turned cold.
She crept down the staircase, each step deliberate, quiet. When she reached the corner, she peeked, two men, faces masked, tearing her living room apart.
Drawers flung open. Cushions slashed. Her things, destroyed.
One of them hissed, "Check her office again. He said it's here"
A crash.
The sharp shatter of ceramic against tile split the silence.
Celine froze. Her foot had clipped a glass jar by the door, sending it tumbling to its death, and alerting the intruders in her penthouse.
"Shit," she whispered.
She turned, heart hammering, and bolted toward the front door, barefoot, in her nightgown, clutching the edge of the wall for balance. But she didn't make it far.
A strong hand grabbed her by the arm, yanking her back.
She gasped.
Another hand slammed her hard against the wall. The cold plaster met her spine. Her breath was knocked out of her lungs.
"Trying to run?" a voice sneered near her ear, low, male, and laced with mockery.
She struggled, pushing against his chest, but he was too strong. Panic crawled up her throat.
"What do you want?" she choked out.
"Same thing we've always wanted," another voice replied from across the room, rifling through her drawers, tossing papers to the ground. "Where is the document? The transfer papers. The originals."
"Go to hell," she spat.
The man pinning her snorted. "Wrong answer."
He raised his hand and slapped her, once, twice, vicious and controlled.
Her head snapped to the side. Her lip split. She tasted blood.
One of them found the document and roughly pushed it into her hand.
"Sign it."
"Sign the papers," he said, dragging her toward the couch and forcing her down. "Or we'll make this a whole lot worse."
Dizzy, trembling, she stared at the document shoved in front of her.
Her company. Her penthouse. Her name.
All being taken from her in ink.
She blinked away tears and took a slow breath. Then, eyes narrowing, she did the only thing she could.
She nodded, slowly… "Fine."
They eased slightly.
And in that heartbeat, she launched forward, grabbing the document, driving her elbow into the man beside her, and scrambling for the door.
"Get her!" someone shouted.
But she was already gone, sprinting barefoot down the hall, clutching the crumpled document to her chest. The elevator was too far, too slow. So she hit the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Blood smeared her mouth. Her heart thundered.
She didn't stop. Not even when the night air cut against her skin.
Not even when the streets were empty.
She ran.
Because now it wasn't just her life on the line,
It was everything she had built.
***
August POV:
August's shift had dragged longer than expected. A private client had rented out the entire restaurant for a dramatic proposal, rose petals, violinists, a five-course meal. The works.
He'd been running on caffeine and adrenaline all day. The bride-to-be had been high-maintenance, picky about the wine, the lighting, even the temperature of the risotto.
"Dude's digging his own grave," August muttered under his breath, tossing his apron onto the passenger seat as he slid behind the wheel of his car. That's how it had started with Marissa, demands, expectations, then guilt. "You're not enough," she used to say. "You're just a chef."
His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he drove aimlessly through the quiet city, trying to clear his head. His son was at his parents' house, so he had the night to himself, yet all he could think about was how fast things could fall apart when you gave too much to the wrong person.
Then he turned into a narrow alley, headlights slicing through the dark,
A figure darted in front of him.
"Shit!"
He slammed the brakes. Tires screamed. The car jolted to a violent stop.
There, frozen in his headlights, stood Celine.
Hair wild, barefoot, in a torn nightgown. Clutching a document like her life depended on it.
Eyes shut, braced for impact.
"Celine?" he gasped, already throwing open his door. He crossed to her in three long strides.
"Hey—hey. It's me." He raised his hands, voice soft but firm. "It's August."a
Her eyes darted up to his, finally focusing.
Recognition.
Relief.
Then she swayed.
He caught her before she fell, arms wrapping around her gently but securely. Her breath hitched, a sob tearing out of her throat as she buried her face in his chest.
"What the hell happened?" he whispered, shielding her with his body, eyes scanning the alley behind them.
But Celine just held onto him, trembling like a leaf.
August's jaw clenched.
Whoever did this... they were going to regret it.