“Nobody does stuff just because. There’s always a reason.”
“I don’t agree,” I say, covering my mouth so I don’t spit burger. “But if we’re playing that game,youmust have a reason too.”
He’s about to take another bite but pauses, mid-air. Then he smirks—this slow, smug little half-smile that’s kind of evil. “Maybe.”
I shift in my seat, fully facing him now. “Okay, then what is it?”
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
Waking up early has never been the issue. The real problem is that I haven't slept a single minute all damn night.
Classic me, really—so typical it makes me want to slam my head against the marble countertop. Why do I keep doing this to myself? And why, for God's sake, is revenge so hard to grasp? It should be simple, something I could effortlessly seize and make mine.
Wait… am I talking about revenge or about Emma?
Yesterday, it seemed so tempting to bring her into my office, to mess with her head using every strategy I know that still works on her. But now, with the day finally here, I'm already starting to second-guess everything.
My phone buzzes, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. A notification flashes on the screen, and suddenly, I’m wide awake.
Love Lamb.
Despite her fiery and extroverted nature, Emma keeps a frustratingly low profile online. Tracking her down was borderline obsessive—I scrolled through every damn contact Lauren—her sister— follows on Instagram, until I found it: LoveLamb, the alias only Emma and I share. Of course, following her openly was out of the question, so I created an anonymous Instagram profile. The picture is a grim-looking gargoyle. The username? Gargoth—not the best nickname, but it was enough to follow her from a safe distance, hidden behind layers of anonymity.
Emma posts her creations sporadically—paintings, photography, whimsical puppets, and dishes she’s cooked. Nothing in her recent posts suggested she was living in Miami, so seeing her in person felt like slamming into an invisible wall at full speed.
I’ve set my notifications specifically to alert me when she posts, and apparently, uploading something at five in the morning is perfectly reasonable to her. The thought makes me smile. Nothing Emma does is ever ordinary.
I open her post—a painting this time. Chains dangle from the ceiling of a small, confined space, intertwined delicately with flowers.
Is she awake right now? And if so, why the hell can't she sleep either?
Without thinking, my fingers move across the screen and hit send.
Gargoth:
What does it mean?
It’s the first time I’ve ever messaged her directly. I don’t know why today—maybe it’s the physical proximity or justknowing she’s awake at the same ridiculous hour as me. Whatever it is, it’s enough to break years of silent observation.
Her response lights up my screen, and my heart kicks hard against my ribs.
Love Lamb:
Not sure yet. It was just a dream I had, and I thought it was pretty.
I’m sprawled on the bed, phone in hand, the screen’s glow washing over me. A smirk tugs at my lips. Before I know it, my thumbs are back at it.
Gargoth:
Can I tell you what I think it means?
Love Lamb:
Nothing’s stopping you…
I chuckle softly into the darkness of my room.
Gargoth:
