SORAYA
I sat in my car outside the firm, engine off, fingers curled loosely around Dad’s leather notebook.
The air inside was still, too still, like the pause before a storm decides whether to break or not.
The conversations I overheard a few weeks back still clung to me. Marissa’s arrogance, her plans to “manage” me, the little cracks I’d noticed in her careful composure.
Good.
Let her think I was manageable. Let her believe I hadn’t noticed.
I flipped open the notebook, scanning my own handwriting from last night, tight, controlled strokes.
“Control the narrative.”
Today, I would test just how quickly she’d take the bait.
I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a thin envelope—handwritten, aged paper, with Dad’s signature at the bottom.
A copy of a clause from his will. Not the real one. Just enough truth to make Marissa panic without exposing my full hand.
I slid the envelope into my bag, locked the car and walked into the building.
The receptionist smiled too politely. The elevator hummed too softly. Every sound felt amplified. The click of my heels echoed down the hallway like a countdown.
I exhaled once, slowly, letting my heartbeat settle into a hunter’s rhythm.
Precision matters. One slip… one glance… that’s all I need.
The office arena felt colder than usual as I stepped inside. The secretaries moved around quietly, whispering to each other, filing documents.
Perfect cover for a trap. I didn’t announce myself.
I placed the envelope on my desk, deliberately halfway under a thick stack of memos where anyone “curious” enough to snoop would see it. A perfect accidental invitation.
Then I left my office door slightly ajar, just a finger’s width.
Just enough to create suspicion.
I positioned myself near the reflective glass wall in the hallway. From there, I could see any shadows moving in my office.
Minutes passed. Then movement. The soft click of heels. Marissa. Alone, then she paused at the edge of my office’s open door, scanning the floor and arena, pretending she had “just passed by”.
She walked into the office. Then her fingers brushed over the envelope on my desk.
The micro-facial tics were subtle – eyes narrowing, a soft exhale through her nose – but I noticed it.
Every micro-expression mapped in my mind.
Her lips pressed together. Her shoulders stiffened.
Good!
Marissa picked up the envelope and scanned the handwriting. Her posture shifted instantly.
“Wait… that’s not possible,” she muttered softly, voice low enough that a passerby wouldn’t catch it, but loud enough that my trained ears did.
Her hand trembled faintly as she read again, double-checking.
I allowed myself a tiny, imperceptible smile.
Yes, it is possible. And now I have you right where I want you.
She tucked the envelope into her purse, clutching it like it was contraband.
The subtle bite of panic was just what I needed. Her confidence had always been her mask, but the mask had slipped.
Her eyes darted to the hallway.
She paused, scanning, instinctively looking for witnesses or allies; none here.
The soft click of the elevator down the hall made her jump slightly. I let her stew in it. Let the little doubt grow. This was all mental warfare.
—
My phone buzzed & I glanced down.
`Left wing cameras blind for 4 minutes. You’re welcome. Zayne.`
A small smile tugged at my lips. Zayne. No greetings nor explanations. Just a single intel that proved one thing: he really cared.
I should be questioning myself;
“How did he get your number?”
“What does he want from me?”
But for unknown reasons I felt comfortable. I didn’t panic.
Then I felt it. His presence was strong and authoritative.
His scent, dark and addictive, kept lingering in my nostrils.
I just knew for sure that he is here, somewhere.
I lifted my head slightly. In the reflection at the far end of the hallway, I saw him, leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, casual posture, watching.
He didn’t approach me. He didn’t even wave. Just observed, his presence is a silent force.
His ghost of a smirk reminded me of the bar— "And what do you think I am?" I asked."Dangerous."
I gave him a slight nod, acknowledging him without moving.
Then he slipped away quietly, just another shadow merging into the hallway, as usual.
Marissa finally moved toward the elevator, the envelope still in her grip. She paused mid-step, eyes scanning the reflection of my office window. Her gaze sharpened.
She sensed something.
I didn’t blink. I didn’t shift. I just let a calm, unreadable smile curve my lips; a small, deliberate show of confidence.
She faltered slightly. Her breath caught for a second.
Jeez… I would have recorded if I could have. That hesitation? Evidence of fear.
Her steps quickened. She turned, holding herself taut, like a predator sensing another predator.
A quiet thrill ran through me.
She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already on my map. Every move she makes from now on, every word, every glance – it’s being noted.
By the time she disappeared around the corner, I closed my office door gently, picked up my notebook, and wrote a single, sharp line under “Control the narrative”:
“The hunt begins.”
For the first time since my rebirth, I felt it in my chest: complete clarity, absolute direction.
Let her suspect me. Let her tremble. Let her plot.
This was only the first trap.
And I had many more waiting.
