It was one of those rare events when Jake can call me for more than 5 minutes and he'd asked me if I was okay for more than 10 time. Ethan probably tipped him off that I'm home already "Yes, I know. It's just a short meeting to sign some documents. I'll be fine,"
"Ethan will be with you right?"
"Yes!" I yelled while trying to search for my left side of my sock. "Don't you have to go back to your secret mission or something?"
I sighed when I couldn't find the damn thing anywhere.
"I on my way home actually," Jake replied. "What are you doing anyway? Are you still mad at me for redecorating your living room?"
"I'm looking for my sock and yes, I'm still mad at you for messing up my house,"
I can hear him snickers, "Why are you mad at me? You're the one who's not taking care of your house more often. Half of your furniture is old and in the verge of collapsing."
"Well sorry I'm not a millionaire like you or Ethan and couldn't afford a maid. Yes!" I finally found it under my new sofa.
Jake just laughed. "Did you find it yet?"
"Uh huh, it was under my sofa," I quickly put it on and take my purse with me.
"You're welcome to live in our house you know, so you don't have to deal with your inability to clean up after yourself,"
"Oh, fuck you," I said as I walked out and locked my door.
"I'm just stating facts," now he sounds like Ethan. Great.
"You sound just like Ethan, I'm leaving. Bye," I quickly hit the red button without hearing his reply. I quickly get into my car and drove off.
After the whole debacle with my editor who tried to kill me, the publisher is happy to publish my version of ending. Fortunately it has a lot of sales but I want to end my contract with them. They're good and all, offering bigger royalty and more signing events but it's time to start a new leaf. That's why I need Ethan today to negotiate the termination, especially considering most of my books was published by them.
I arrived at the building in one piece, which I considered a personal achievement given my track record with traffic, anxiety, and my questionable ability to reconize left and right directions.
Ethan was already waiting near the front doors, leaning against the railing in his usual effortless model stance. Black shirt, fitted slacks, sunglasses. He looked like someone who could walk a runway before lunch.
"Hey," I called, locking my car.
He perked up immediately. "Did you hang up on Jake again?"
"Yes. For my sanity."
Ethan smirked. "Good."
I sighed and brushed imaginary lint off my blouse. "Remind me again why I surround myself with the two most insufferable men on earth?"
"Self-preservation," Ethan replied smoothly. "Deep down, you know you'd die without us."
I jabbed him with my elbow as we walked inside. "Are you two part of a cult that trains you to say irritating things with zero remorse?"
"No," he answered. "We're naturally gifted."
Despite my nerves, I laughed.
Which helped. A lot.
The elevator ride felt shorter than usual. Probably because Ethan kept casually giving me a pep talk about the meeting like I was a boxer before a title match.
"You've already proven yourself as an author, Emily. The publisher wants you more than you want them. You're in control. Stay calm, don't apologize just because someone in the room raises an eyebrow."
I swallowed. "You make it sound easy."
"That's because I'll be sitting right next to you making eye contact with whoever tries to intimidate you."
I blinked. "…You're terrifying. And I appreciate you."
"I'am awesome."
The elevator dinged, and we stepped out.
The meeting room was bright, glass-walled, and full of people pretending to smile professionally while definitely gossiping inside their heads.
The publisher himself—Daniel's boss—stood when we entered.
"Emily," he greeted warmly, extending a hand. "Glad you could make it. And Ethan, welcome."
Ethan shook his hand politely, though his expression remained unreadable. Good. I didn't want him soft here.
We sat. Papers were distributed. Legal phrases were exchanged. I signed where Ethan tapped and declined where he shook his head.
No one mentioned Daniel. No one dared.
It was professional. Efficient. Clean.
And when the final document slid across the table toward me, the executive leaned back.
"We're sad to see you go," he said honestly. "But we respect your decision. And we're grateful you trusted us with your work."
My pen hovered a second, just one.
Leaving this publisher behind felt like closing a door I'd kept half-open for years.
But I clicked the pen and signed.
Done.
Ethan placed his hand briefly over mine, not noticeable to anyone else, as a steady reassurance.
And for the first time since everything fell apart…
I felt free.
After the meeting, we grabbed coffee to celebrate. Well, Ethan asked for us to celebrate it. I mostly stared at my cup like it had gold inside of it.
"So," Ethan said as we sat outside. "How do you feel?"
I pulled in a breath. "Scared. Excited. Weirdly emotional. Slightly nauseous."
He nodded. "Perfect. That means it mattered."
I watched cars pass, people walk by, life continuing like none of the chaos that wrecked mine ever existed.
"Do you think I made the right choice?" I asked quietly.
Ethan tilted his sunglasses down and looked at me directly.
"You just went through a traumatic experience and anyone who tried to make your situation difficult is a dick. Look, there are still a lot of publisher that will give you money more than this one. Don't think about it too much."
I stared at him.
Then, because apparently today was full of fragile emotional revelations, I muttered, "You know… sometimes you remind me of Jake."
He grinned. "Yes. Except I have better hair."
I snorted.
And that was that.
We finished our drinks, walked back to the car, and I drove home. Not shaking, not second-guessing, just driving peacefully with Taylor Swift's 'Back to December' playing.
When I finally reached my driveway, my phone buzzed.
Jake: Will be back at midnight. Call when you're home.
I smiled, leaned my head against the steering wheel a second, then texted back: Already home. And I didn't die. You're welcome.
Three dots appeared.
Jake: Proud of you.
My chest warmed in that uncomfortable, inconvenient way emotions always did.
I texted back only one word: Thanks.
I locked my phone, grabbed my things, and headed toward the house.I had no idea what was coming next. But for the first time in a long time. I felt ready for whatever it is.
*~*
Friday night is here, and I had spent the last three days drowning in emails from publishers about offers, conferences, proposals, agents wanting meetings, and my brain felt like a computer repeatedly hitting error 404.
So yes. I needed a drink. And maybe something reckless and questionable to temporarily silence my mind.
I take my phone and texted Oscar: You in town?
I leave my home office to make an early dinner when Oscar replied back.
Oscar: Sure is, why?
Me: I need a drink and a hookup probably.
Oscar: I know just the right place. Let me text the others and I'll pick you up at 7?
Me: Awesome 😀
I release a breath of relieve and make an instant noodle and ready to chill for the rest of the afternoon.
When night finally rolled in, and by the time 7 p.m. came, I was dressed, caffeinated, and emotionally exhausted.
Oscar texted at 6:59: Outside. If you're not ready I'm leaving you for dead.
I grabbed my jacket, phone, and the tiny sliver of dignity I had left.
When I opened the door, Oscar leaned against his overpriced black car with sunglasses on looking like a douchebag who refused to pay taxes.
"You look hot," he said, eyeing my outfit. "And one bad decision away from getting some action in a dirty bathroom club."
"Perfect," I deadpanned. "That's exactly the look I was going for."
We drove into the city with music blasting and the windows cracked. The sky was purple, the traffic loud, and the world smelled like rain, smoke, and weekend mistakes.
When we reached the club, a neon-soaked rooftop bar with a line full of questionable fashion choices. Oscar flashed the bouncer a smile so devastating the man stepped aside without checking IDs.
I rolled my eyes.
Oscar could charm the dead if he wanted.
Inside, the music was loud enough to rattle ribs. Lights pulsed overhead. People danced like the world didn't exist outside the walls.
Oscar spotted two familiar figures at the bar. Travis and Mayra. Who, as far as I know, is the best sharpshooter on their team. Travis is an easygoing guy who likes to play poker a lot, while Mayra is straight up terrifying, she even terrified Oscar, who unabashedly and unapologetically likes to get under people's skin.
I blinked. "You invited them?"
"Yes," Oscar grinned. "Because if you get drunk enough to climb furniture or insult strangers, I need responsible witnesses."
"You're the worst."
"Blame your brother."
I rolled my eyes, and that's when Mayra put her hand around my shoulders and dragged me to the bar. "Come on, let's get you some booze and forget these fuckers,"
The night blurred in a warm haze.
We drank. We danced. We yelled conversations over the music. Travis tried to teach me a dance move that definitely wasn't physically possible, and Mayra swore she could smell tequila from across the room.
At some point, someone handed me a cherry shot. Someone else bought another round. Then another.
Eventually, Oscar disappeared into the crowd, probably flirting with someone who definitely had a motorcycle and definitely terrible morals.
Which left me leaning against the bar, flushed and buzzed, when a man slid beside me.
Tall. Warm brown eyes. Easy smile.
"Rough week?" he asked.
I let out a breathy laugh. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only because I'm having one too," he said, clinking his glass gently against mine. "To survival?"
"To barely functioning adulthood," I corrected.
We drank.
We talked.
Or something resembling talking between laughter and flirtation.
And then maybe because the alcohol was warm and his cologne was distracting and I hadn't kissed anyone in far too long. We found ourselves outside behind the club, where the music was softer, the air cooler, and the city lights glowed like quiet witnesses.
His hands cupped my face gently. My hands curled around his jacket.
And then we were kissing. Messy, hungry, unplanned, but not unwelcome.
For a moment, my brain shut up. Finally.
But the universe apparently hates me, because footsteps scraped against asphalt.
At first, I ignored it.
Then a rough voice barked. "Wallets. Phones. Now."
I froze. The guy I was kissing pulled back, startled.
Three men stood there, hoodies up, faces shadowed.
My stomach dropped. Cold. Fast.
"Just do what they say," the guy beside me whispered, lifting his hands slowly in surrendering gesture.
I swallowed and reached into my purse.
But before I could hand anything over, the closest mugger grabbed my wrist hard, and yanked.
Pain shot up my arm.
"Don't make this difficult," he growled near my ear.
"I was just grabbing my wallet," I said, trying to suppress the tremble in my voice.
He yanked my purse from my shoulder and push me to the wall so hard I actually tumble down. I heard a scuffle from my soon-to-be hookup, Kyle, as I tried to stand up. But as I turned to look at whats happening I saw one of them pulled a gun and shoot Kyle in his chest.
The sound wasn't loud. Just a sharp, ugly pop, but it felt like the universe ripped open. Kyle staggered backward, confusion flickering in his eyes before pain took over. His hands flew to his chest, blood already soaking through his shirt.
"No—no no no—" I heard myself whisper as he crumpled to the ground.
The world tilted. The alley felt too small. The air too thin.
One of the men grabbed the shooter's arm. "What the hell, man?! We were just supposed to grab their stuff!"
"He saw my face!" the gunman snapped, voice cracking. "I panicked!"
They then argued loud, frantic, terrified. But none of it mattered because Kyle was lying on cold pavement, gasping like someone drowning on dry land. I scrambled toward him, knees scraping against rough concrete.
"Kyle—hey—hey, look at me," I said, pressing my hands over his wound even though my fingers shook so hard I could barely touch him. "You're okay. You're okay. Help is coming. You're—"
But there was no "help."
Not yet.
Only me.
And blood. So much blood.
His eyes darted up to mine. Glassy and desperate. He tried to speak, but only a strained whimper escaped.
"Please don't die," I whispered. "Please,"
The gunman raised the weapon again. Slow and deliberate. Pointed directly at me now.
"She saw, too."
"No, no, wait," I lifted my hands, stumbling backward until my shoulders hit cold brick. "Please, just take whatever—I won't,"
He moved closer. Hard footsteps cracking gravel.
"You think I'm stupid?" His voice was low, cold. "You'll call the cops the second we walk away."
My pulse roared in my ears. Kyle wheezed in pain beside me, blood pooling under him.
The other two muggers watched with nervous agitation. One shifting weight from foot to foot, the other whispering urgently, "Just go, man. We got what we came for."
But the one with the gun shook his head. "No loose ends."
Something cold settled in my veins.
Not fear. But anger. I pushed to my feet, breath unsteady but spine straight. My hands curled into fists even though they trembled.
"You already got what you wanted," I snapped. "Walk away. No one has to die."
The second robber laughed. A harsh, ugly sound.
"Sweetheart, he already did."
My pulse hammered, heat rushing into my limbs.
Kyle wasn't dead yet. I knew that now, because I checked, but because something deep inside me felt he only has a short time. "Go home and I won't tell anyone. I'll pay you more,"
But the shooter didn't like my answer. He cocked the gun. I lifted my chin.
"Fine," I said quietly. "Then you'll have to try to kill me."
The one closest lunged.
Jake always said to look at their shoulders and predict their intent. He wanted to swing left at my face and his intent is to kill me. I sidestepped, slammed my elbow into his jaw, and felt bone crack under the impact.
He stumbled, swearing. Then the third robber rushed me. I dodged again, barely, but he caught a fistful of my hair and yanked. Pain shot down my spine, making my vision flash white. He shoved me toward the shooter and he quickly put me in chokehold that has me gasping.
As the gun pressed against my forehead, the world slowed to a heartbeat. His heartbeat. I could hear it. No, I can feel it. A pulse. A fast rhythm. Then there's this odd current. Something inside me reached like a starving animal lifting its head to scent food. Then, something flickered in my awareness.
A warmth swelled in my chest. Sharp, electric, impossible. It spread through my veins like molten metal. The shooter noticed the change. His eyes narrowed.
"What the hell—"
Too late.
My hand shot up and closed around his wrist. His skin touched mine. And everything changed. A rush of sensation hit, violent and overwhelming like wind roaring or oceans crashing into mountains.
His fear, rage and will to survive. All of it flowed into me while something of his drained away. When his grip loosen I turned and kicked his knee until he kneels in front of me.
His eyes widened in horror. "W—what are you," His voice strangled mid-sentence.
His body convulsed as his skin paled, like color was being pulled out of him. And the rush is just getting bigger, like I was high on drug.
The second robber tried to yank me off, screaming, "Let him go!"
But I couldn't. It's too good to let go. So, the rest of them ran away. I can hear their footsteps even after they disappeared behind a building. Then, their run turn into walking, and became impossible to distinguish as they blend with the crowd.
My vision blurred, but there is this rush of happiness and contentment as I look into my robers eyes. It was intoxicating. The alley grew cold and there's only silence thick enough to swallow echoes. But I enjoyed it.
When the rush stopped, it was sudden. The power snapped back inside me like a rubber band. My knees gave out. And the men who tried to rob me is as still as a statue and when I let him go he dropped to the ground. Lifeless.
I stared at my hands. No marks. No burns. Just my regular typing hands. My throat tightened. Oh God. What have I done?