Chapter 2 The Man at the Door

I didn't sleep. Not really.

I must have dozed off at some point between my third glass of wine and re-reading my resume for the sixth time. But it wasn't the kind of sleep that leaves you rested. It was the heavy kind...the kind where your brain won't shut up and your body forgets how to relax. Where every regret plays on loop, and your thoughts turn into blades.

When I finally surfaced, my mouth tasted like ash and my temples throbbed with dull pressure. Morning light leaked through the curtains, casting long gray shadows across the floor. I blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented for a moment before it all crashed back down. Fired. Publicly. Humiliated by the one man I should have seen coming-and still hadn't.+

No one ever speaks up to him, but I had. He was feared and respected to the core. Mostly for the fear of being fired, because he does that easily. CEO. Billionaire. Predator in three-piece suit. And you hardly see him. Rarely. I can count the number of times I'd seen him. Yesterday was the only moment I'd had a really close call with him...but I ended up getting fired.

I groaned and sat up, dragging my aching body out of the tangled sheets. My apartment was freezing. I shuffled barefoot to the thermostat and cranked the heat up a few notches, rubbing my arms for warmth. The air smelled faintly of last night's takeout and too-sweet wine. I hadn't even made it to the dishes. Pathetic.

In the kitchen, I started the coffee pot and winced at the sputtering hiss it gave in protest. It sounded how I felt...overworked, bitter, and ready to explode at the slightest provocation. The scent of brewing beans offered some comfort, but not enough to drown out the sting in my chest.

The TV murmured low in the corner. Some stiff-suited anchor was discussing "market instability" and "unexpected boardroom changes at Thorne Global." I didn't need to hear more. The second I caught the name, I lunged for the remote and shut it off. I didn't want to hear his name. I didn't want to think about him. About the way Damian Thorne had stood in front of an entire boardroom and gutted me with a single sentence. About how his voice had been too calm, too controlled. How his eyes, those strange, liquid-gold eyes, had never wavered. Like the whole thing meant nothing.

It wasn't attraction. At least, I kept telling myself it wasn't. I wasn't dumb enough to fall for someone like him. A man who treated empathy like a weakness and secrets like currency. A man who could kill a career with a word and never blink. No. I hated Damian Thorne. And hate was easier to hold than confusion.

I wrapped both hands around my mug as I curled up on the couch, steam rising to fog my glasses. The warmth of the coffee didn't quite reach the hollow spot in my chest. I opened my laptop with a sigh. Time to hustle. I had rent due in ten days, and the last thing I needed was a reminder that emotional breakdowns weren't tax deductible. Maybe one of my old contacts at ArgentCorp was hiring. Or even Windmere Investments. I didn't care if it meant starting over at the bottom. I just needed something-anything-to make me feel like I wasn't completely unmoored.

I had just started typing a painfully chipper cover letter-"Dear Hiring Manager, I'm thrilled at the opportunity to..."-when the knock came. Three sharp raps, making me shift. I checked the time. 6:53 a.m. Too early for packages. Too early for anyone sane to be visiting. Layla would have texted first, and the building didn't let strangers up without a call from the front desk.

The knock came again, harder this time. I rose slowly, blood humming in my ears as I moved toward the door. My fingers hovered above the lock.

"Who is it?" I called out, trying to sound firmer than I felt.

Silence. Then a voice-low, male, smooth as dark velvet. "Evelyn Carter?"

I stiffened. "Who's asking?"

A pause. "I was sent by Mr. Thorne." Every muscle in my body immediately went rigid.

"No, thank you," I snapped, already backing away. "Tell Mr. Thorne to lose my address."

"Afraid I can't do that." His voice was still calm, almost too calm. Like he was used to getting what he wanted.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Layla. Voicemail. A thud echoed from the hallway. Heavy and sharp. Like something slamming into the wall just outside my door. My breath caught as I bolted the deadlock, yanked down the chain, and clutched my phone tighter.

"Who are you?" I called again, louder now.

No response. No sounds of footsteps. No retreat. Just silence. I hesitated, then crept forward and peered through the peephole. Empty hallway. No man. No movement or elevator doors closing. It was as if the whole encounter had been a ghostly apparition, vanished into thin air.

I stood there for a while, staring at the empty hallway, trying to steady my breathing. My heart was still racing, and my mind was reeling with questions. Who was this person? What did Damian Thorne want from me? And why did I feel like I was being watched?

I eventually retreated back into the apartment, double-checked the locks, and made another cup of coffee I didn't drink. The world felt off-balance, like something had shifted and hadn't settled back into place.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of anxiety and unease. I tried to focus on job applications, but my mind kept wandering back to the mysterious visitor and Damian Thorne's ominous message.

As night began to fall, I felt a growing sense of unease. I tried to distract myself with TV and books, but nothing seemed to hold my attention. The silence in the apartment felt oppressive, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched.

That night, I didn't get much rest. I dreamed of shadows and velvet voices whispering my name through a heavy mist I couldn't escape. Eyes followed me through every corridor in the dreamscape, glowing faintly gold. I kept running, barefoot on marble, heart racing. But no matter where I turned, the same voice waited at the end.

"Evelyn."

I woke with a jolt, bathed in sweat. My room was quiet, but the air felt wrong. Tense. Still.

Something fluttered near the door. I pushed the blankets off and stepped onto the cold floorboards, every nerve tingling. I crossed the room slowly, dread crawling up my spine. There, slipped neatly under the door, was a card. Black. Matte. No logo. No writing-except for a single word embossed in shimmering gold foil.

'Soon.'

No return address. No contact number. Just that one word.

I stared at it, my stomach dropping. I didn't touch it, not yet. The card radiated something... wrong. Like it was humming with energy I couldn't explain.

I didn't know who left it. I didn't know how they had gotten past the security downstairs. And I didn't know what "soon" was supposed to mean. I felt a shiver run down my spine as I gazed at the card.

I knew I had to be prepared. I knew I had to be ready for whatever was coming my way. But as I stood there, frozen in fear and uncertainty, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was already too late.