I woke to sunlight slicing through half-drawn blinds, casting golden bars across the king-sized bed. My body ached everywhere—muscles sore from the sprint, calves knotted tight, a dull throb pulsing in my scraped calf where the fence had torn skin.
Last night's memories made my skin crawl up in fear. The room felt eerily still, air thick with quiet luxury: cream silk sheets tangled around my legs.
No hum of another presence, no soft breaths or rustle of movement.
Lily hadn't come back. Or had she? I sat up slow, raven hair a wild mess tumbling over my shoulders, oversized shirt slipping off one porcelain arm. The trousers pooled ridiculous at my ankles, Lily's tall frame mocking my shorter one even in absence.
Part of me wasn't surprised—heroine types didn't babysit villainesses overnight. Still, a petty sting twisted my gut. She was a rude saviour, vanishing without a word. At least, I wanted to thank her for saving me.
I scanned the room, emerald eyes sharp despite the fog of exhaustion covering my eyes. There, on the glass-topped nightstand—a neat stack of fresh clothes—crisp black jeans, brown blouse tailored sharp, a lightweight black mask folded beside like an afterthought.
There was a note, scrawled in looping script on hotel stationery—Wear these. Cab's waiting downstairs. Go home—or wherever. Don't make more trouble for me anymore. If possible, don't contact me at all. -L.
So, she had been here.
She must have slipped in ghost-quiet while I slept dead to the world, played wardrobe fairy, then bailed.
I pouted, full lips pursing in childish resentment, and crumpled the note in my fist. Although she helped... she's still a bitch. I hate bitches' types like her.
Dramatic? Maybe.
Fine. I'd use the clothes, the mask, and ghost her right back.
Peeling off Lily's hand-me-downs felt like shedding borrowed skin. The cotton whispered to the floor, leaving me bare under the cool air—porcelain skin prickling goosebumps, full breasts heaving with a deep sigh, waist dipping sinful into flaring hips. I checked myself in the mirror as I saw myself still goddess-tier, emerald eyes fierce, raven waves tousled bedroom-wild.
The new outfit fit perfect—jeans hugging curves like a jealous lover, blouse silk-soft against my skin, accentuating the girls without screaming. I am pretty sure that every piece of clothing in this world would look good at me.
Mask slipped on easy, hiding my infamous face from prying eyes. I found my purse from last night's chaos—sketchpad damp but salvageable—I grabbed my phone and headed out.
Elevator hummed down thirty floors smooth, lobby a blur of marble and doormen who nodded without questions.
I entered the cab as engine purred lowly. Sliding in the back, mask muffling my voice. "Nearest police station. Fast," I said. A police complaint would tone down my fear a bit.
Ten minutes blurred by—city streets slick from night's rain, horns blaring impatient, skyscrapers looming like judgmental giants.
The cab jerked to a stop outside a squat concrete building buzzing midday energy—cop cars parked haphazard, uniforms milling under flickering signs, civilians shuffling in line at glass-fronted desks. I paid quick, mask firm, heart steeling for the fight ahead.
I still don't know anything about those who tried to kidnap me. What was their motive? Who paid them to kidnap me? I know nothing at all.
Pushing through glass doors hit me with stale coffee stench and ringing phones. I wove toward the front desk, heels—sensible flats today, post-chase practical—clipping tile purposeful.
Before I reached it, a rough hand clamped my wrist like a vice, yanking me sideways into a shadowed hallway. Pain shot up my arm, hot and immediate.
"What the hell?!" I yelped, mask slipping askew as I twisted to face my attacker. "Who are you?!"
"Shut up, Emily. Why the fuck are you here?" The voice growled low, laced with venomous familiarity. Towering over me stood Kien Uren—the novel's second male lead, ex-Lieutenant turned ruthless businessman. Broad shoulders strained a fitted black jacket, buzzed dark hair military-short, steel-gray eyes narrowed to slits under heavy brows. Chiselled jaw clenched tight, a faint scar snaking his left cheek from some pre-novel "heroic" bust.
In the book, he'd been Lily's knight—obsessed with her doe-eyed "kindness," ditching police for private security empire to "protect" her from creeps like OG Emily. Now those eyes bored into me, possessive fury aimed wrong.
He dragged me outside before I could wrench free, slamming my back against the hood of his sleek black sedan parked crooked by the curb. Metal bit cold through my blouse, breath whooshing out on impact. Pain flared up my spine, but I met his glare head-on, emerald fire clashing steel.
"Tell me, Emily," he snarled, looming close—too close, his cologne sharp mint over alpha musk— "why are you here? Are you trying to cause problems for Lily?"
I yanked my mask down defiant, raven strands whipping free. "Doesn't concern you, Kien. I'm filing a complaint." My voice was as steady as steel, despite wrist throbbing under his grip, bruises blooming purple already.
"A complaint?" He barked a laugh, ugly and disbelieving, free hand shooting out to fist my hair—yanking back hard enough tears pricked my eyes. Scalp burned fire-white, head forced tilt exposing throat vulnerable. "You stirring trouble for Lily again? How many times do I have to warn you?"
"I'm not here for your precious Lily!" I spat, pain twisting my words sharp. "Filing a goddamn complaint. And who the hell are you to block me? Ex-cop playing bodyguard?" I glared at him with hatred.
His grip crushed tighter on my wrist, bones grinding warning, hair-pull unrelenting. I cried out involuntary, yelp echoing off concrete walls—raw, pained, tears spilling hot down cheeks despite clamped jaw. Humiliation burned worse than the hurt.
"If you fuck with Lily again," he hissed inches from my face, breath hot foul, gray eyes wild possessive, "I'll ruin you. Bury you so deep no Leonhart daddy pulls strings."
"Let me go, you bastard!" I bucked hard, knee jerking up—but he pinned thigh with his leg, immovable slab.
"Did you hear me?" His snarl dropped octave, venom dripping. "Last time you filed some bullshit complaint against her—just because she snubbed your creepy ass at that event? Cost her endorsements, you psycho. Won't happen twice."
"Fuck you!" Rage exploded. No more victim. Purse whipped up fast—leather edge cracking his temple with a satisfying thwack. He staggered, grip loosening a hair.
Seizing the split, I stomped hard—pointed heel of my flat grinding vicious into his groin. Fabric tore faint; he collapsed howling, meaty thud to pavement, hands cupping agony, face purpling red.
I loomed over him, chest heaving wild, tears streaming unchecked down my cheeks—hot, furious tracks carving clean paths through faint alley grime still clinging. Wrist burned livid red rings, throbbing promise of bruises.
"You were a Lieutenant once, right?" I spat on his twisted face, saliva glistening venom on his cheek. "Good riddance. I am glad that you quit. Rabid dog like you doesn't deserve the badge." Voice cracked raw emotion, tears flowing harder now—not just pain, but everything crashing. My barista dreams were crushed under the villainess weight.
I turned sharp, heels clicking furious retreat, wiping cheeks furious with sleeve—sobbing quiet but building to ugly heaves.
Kien raised his head slow, gray eyes wide shock from the ground, hand still cradling wrecked pride. "Are you... crying?" Disbelief cracked his tough mask, like seeing me melt was something incomprehensible.
"Fuck y-you! If y-you... don't w-w-want to let me, w-write.... a complaint, fine..."
I cried harder, shoulders shaking, raven hair curtaining humiliated face as I stormed away.