One
CORA
Liam lingers in the doorway, his gaze flickering around the room as if danger might leap out from behind the potted ficus.
“Are you sure?” His brow furrows with concern. “I can stay until your bodyguard arrives. I don’t mind crashing in the guest room.”
Forcing a smile, I try to wave off his worry. “I’m home now, Liam. Safe. It’s Bel Air, not some sketchy alley. There’s no need to go overboard.” I gesture to the familiar surroundings. “I’m not planning any moonlit strolls down dark alleys tonight. I want to sleep in my bed after two hellish days in the hospital.”
His frown deepens. “Why didn’t you hire a bodyguard when we first talked about it?”
I bite my lip, guilt gnawing at me. The truth? I’d shrugged the idea off as paranoid overkill. I still think the mugging was just an unfortunatecoincidence.
“I meant to,” I lie. “I... hadn’t gotten around to it yet.” The excuse sounds weak even to my own ears.
He doesn’t look convinced, but I press on. “Besides, it’s not like I’m in real danger. I got mugged, sure, but that could happen to anyone.” I wave a hand like it’s nothing. “And Dad hired one anyway. He’ll be here tomorrow.”After Lucas ratted me out.
Liam hesitates, his eyes darting around the apartment once more.
“It’s fine,” I insist, playing my trump card. “Besides, Arlo will be here soon, so I won’t be alone. We can engage in thrilling activities like watching paint dry and counting ceiling tiles.”
“Arlo’s coming?” Liam’s shoulders relax, but doubt still clouds his eyes.
“Yeah, so stop worrying, dear brother,” I say, attempting a more convincing smile. If he knew what Arlo did when it mattered most, he’d probably think twice. But that’s a secret I wasn’t ready to share.
Liam gives me one last tight hug before leaving. As the door clicks shut behind him, the silence of the empty apartment engulfs me.
Alone at last.
For a moment, I stand there, letting the reality of being home wash over me. The familiar scents and sounds that should bring comfort arenow slightly off as if I’m looking at my life through a warped lens. Everything is the same, and yet nothing is.
I head for the shower, craving the comfort of my bathroom after the clinical sterility of the hospital. Standing in front of the mirror, I stare at the bruise on my forehead that’s slowly disappearing. The swelling has gone down, but the yellowishdiscoloration is a stark reminder of how close I came to a much worse fate.
My gaze drifts to my neck, where faint marks still mar my skin. A shudder runs through me as the memory surfaces unbidden.
The mugger’s grip, choking the life from me as if I were nothing more than a rag doll.
My breathing quickens, becoming shallow as panic claws at my chest. The bathroom walls seem to close in, the air thick and oppressive. I stumble into the shower, cranking the hot water to full blast. The scalding spray hits my skin, and I gasp, the shock drowning out the panic.
“Get it together, Cora,” I mutter, letting the water cascade over me. “It was just a random mugging, not the zombie apocalypse.”
I get out and dress in my most comfortable sweats and an oversized t-shirt. My eyes fall on the boxes that arrived during my hospital stay. A spark of excitement flickers in my chest, pushing aside the darkness.
I approach them, utility knife in hand, and slice through the tape.
I lift out an antique teapot, a treasure I acquired at auction two weeks ago. Its delicate flower engravings and gold decorations are flawless, a perfect addition to my collection. I love the thrill of finding unique pieces, of creating unforgettable experiences for my clients and myself.
“Well, hello there, beautiful,” I murmur to the teapot. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
The client, a tech billionaire with more money than taste, wanted an “old money” theme for his daughter’s sweet sixteen. This teapot would have been perfect, a touch of genuine antiquityamidst the carefully curated facade of inherited wealth, but I think I’m going to keep it.
I move to the living room to place it in my glass cabinet, and notice the broken necklace on the table, the pendant gone. Reality comes crashing back.
My hands shake, the teapot suddenly heavy. The cabinet door seems miles away. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps.
What if he comes back? What if next time...
The teapot slips from my grasp. I lunge for it, my heart in my throat. My fingers close around the handle at the last second, saving it from shattering on the hardwood floor.
