Saving Ella (The Luxe Universe)

Chapter 1

Ella

I’m graduating from writing about murder to committing it.

“Where is it?” My screech fills the apartment and probably alerts half my neighbors. I am so close, inches close, so goddamn close to losing my temper. Hours I’ve looked for my lucky pen, and I still haven’t fucking found it, hence the temptation to kill someone—anyone—to make myself feel better.

If you’d actually looked everywhere, you would’ve found it by now.

I tap my temple to knock the thought out of my head. Otherwise, I’ll have an argument with my writer's brain, which at times feels fully independent of my actual brain.

My mom had called it a gift. Having a part of your head that creates stories and characters and dialogue and plot twists is something, I assume, most people don’t have. It helps me write books, but it comes with inevitable downfalls.

Like giving me attitude.

Luckily, I’ve developed a technique. Like a slap on the wrist, I tap my temple—once if it’s annoying, twice if it's really bugging me—and the thought disappears.

Temporarily, anyway.

You know I’m right.

I furiously tap my temple again. Sometimes the technique works, and sometimes it doesn’t. Today, it’s failing spectacularly.

Didn’t you have it on the balcony when you were editing the latest piece-of-shit chapter you wrote?

“Oh right, I did,” I whisper.

I yank open the balcony doors and sigh with relief when I spot my beautiful lucky red pen lying in all its glory on the small, round table beside a molding, half-empty cup of tea. Okay, writer’s brain. You win for today.

Told you. I’m always right.

It’s probably strange to put so much hope into a pen, but it technically isn’t a specific pen; it’s the brand and the color.

I used the same pen to edit my first book, and it was a huge success, so in my superstitiousness I mass-bought them to recreate that luck.

It works every time, and I won’t risk using another kind.

Unfortunately, my latest delivery of said pens has been delayed. I have a final copy to edit before I go out later, and I refuse to allow another pen to touch the beautiful story I’ve written. No, sir.

Get to work then, Ella. You’re stalling.

“Right.” I head onto the balcony—and trip.

On nothing. I trip on freaking nothing. I squeak in fear of going over the railing, graphic images of my body meeting the sidewalk at astonishing speed assaulting my mind, and thrust my arms out to protect my face.

Instead, my outstretched hands knock the table, and then everything moves in slow motion: my falling, a second high-pitched squeal, the pen rolling, rolling …

The pen falling.

I yelp, darting for it, no longer caring that I could kiss the street below, but it’s too late.

My pen disappears from view.

“No!”

No!

I grip the railing and look over like it’s my firstborn, eyes wide and scanning the street, expecting screams of horror from the people below.

“How could you do this, Ella? It was just a child!”

Eyes darting across the busy city sidewalk, I breathe a sigh of relief when I see my innocent pen lying on the balcony of the apartment below, its only company a dead plant.

And then I immediately recoil, because the last thing I want to do in this world is knock on Barnaby Fisher’s front door.

There are several reasons why.

One: Barnaby is a fucking creep. He’s tech- and computer-obsessed, which is fine, except I’d once caught his drone outside my balcony window, filming me.

Two: He never leaves the house. Ever. Since COVID, he’s locked himself away, only occasionally going downstairs for deliveries, which, again, is fine, but I always seem to be the one who ends up with those damn deliveries.

I’ll sometimes get a call from the front desk to collect boxes that aren’t mine, and I swear Barnaby does it on purpose, so I have no choice but to visit him.

Three: If Deacon finds out I went to see Barnaby, he’ll be furious. When I’d told my almost-ex about the drone incident, they’d had a strongly worded conversation, which I’m fairly sure ended with more than one threat of violence.

Four: I look nice today. I’m going out for dinner with my dad in a few hours, and I’ve had my hair done, my makeup looks cute as hell, and Barnaby will somehow see that as for him and flirt with me, despite Deacon’s warnings.

But the pen, Ella. You need the pen.

I do need the pen. The pen is essential.

The pen means another best-seller.

“Maybe I could climb down?” I suggest, my lips twisting in trepidation at the mere suggestion.

Please try. I’d love to see what happens.

I tap my temple.

“Just do it. Just go.”

Before heading for the door, I pull a sweatshirt over my white sundress. My outfit isn’t exactly revealing, but it’s hot outside, so my chest, arms and legs are on display. Barnaby Fisher is seeing as little of me as humanly possible.

I head downstairs. There’s usually a Post-it stuck to the wood that says, “LEAVE DELIVERIES OUTSIDE—DO NOT KNOCK WILL NOT ANSWER (unless you’re Ella Gibson)” but it isn’t there.

I knock.

As I wait, my phone hums.

Dad: Still on for tonight? No pressure, baby.

I smile. Leave it up to my dad to know I might want to cancel, bury myself in writing, and not feel guilty about it.

He knows me better than anyone and understands my obsession with my work, just like I understand his.

But I want to see him. My first draft is finally finished, and some fresh air will help me get perspective.

Maybe even fill in some inevitable plot holes.

Me: We’re still on. I’ll even pay!

Dad: are you my daughter

I smile again. Asshole.

Then I frown, because I’m still standing in front of a closed door.

“Barnaby, it’s me,” I call out, rolling my eyes. I expect quickening footsteps and the door to fly open, but nothing. I bang the flat of my first on the wood. “I just dropped something on your balcony! Open up! Two seconds of your precious time!”

Nothing.

I increase the intensity of my knocking. “I know you’re in there, you little gremlin. Open up!”

Probably not wise to insult him before you ask for a favor, Ella.

Screw niceties. I hammer against the door in rhythm with his name.

“Barnaby, Barnaby, Barnaby, Barna—” The door flies open, and I blink.

A man in a shirt and suit pants stands in the doorway, glaring down at me.

He has black hair, messy in an I-woke-up-gorgeous kind of way, and eyes so dark I can’t distinguish between the iris and the pupil.

He towers over me. And I mean, towers. My dad is six four, so I’m used to tall men, but this guy is tall.

And built. He almost fills the doorframe.

I wish he could fill me.

Um, think about Deacon, your boyfriend?

He’s barely a boyfriend.

Tell him that before you consider boning the stranger in Barnaby’s apartment.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice curt, and deep, and gravelly, and sexy, and—

Ella, focus on the pen.

“I need to talk to Barnaby,” I say.

The stranger rests his hand against the doorframe, looking fucking edible, despite the fact he also looks like he’d very much like to kill me. “He isn’t available.”

“Well, tell him he can Discord with his hacker friends later; I need something from his—”

The door slams shut in my face.

My mouth drops open. What a total asshole. What a total, complete, utter asshole.

Kill him, Ella!

I start hammering on the door again. The beautiful stranger yanks it back open. “What?”

“Don’t you ‘what’ me, you sanctimonious asshole; I told you I need to speak to Barnaby, and I know he’s in there!”

He slams the door shut again—but not before giving me the finger.

“Is he for fucking real?” I whisper to the empty hall.

I think he is.

I kick the door. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. This time, when he answers, I duck under his arm and dart into the apartment.

“What the fuck?” he shouts, but I ignore him, hearing the slam of the door and his footsteps following, but I ignore both and focus on the balcony. I yank open the sliding glass door, grab my precious pen, and brandish it like it’s goddamn Excalibur.

Good work, Ella. Now use the pen to kill the beautiful stranger.

I walk back into the living room and freeze.

My gaze travels across the apartment that’s a similar layout to my own.

And it’s … spotless. I’ve seen this room through the doorway several times, and it never looks like this.

The usual boxes Barnaby keeps from all his gadgets are gone.

There’s no trash, no dirty dishes, no litter on the floor.

The only things that assure me that I’m in Barnaby’s apartment are the posters on the walls and the ugly-ass green couch that he’d once offered to “bone” me on.

Ugh, he really is the worst.

“Get the fuck out!” The beautiful stranger gestures at the still-open door.

Wait. Hadn’t I heard him close it?

“Get the fuck out before I throw you out.”

“You’re really rude!” I say, hands on my hips.

“You just broke in. You’re lucky I don’t call the cops!”

I roll my eyes. “Dramatic much? What am I gonna do? Murder you? I just needed my pen!”

“Your pen?”

I brandish the pen at him. “Yes, genius. My pen.”

It’s then I notice a German Shepherd sitting by the closed bedroom door, ears up. It’s completely still. So still, in fact, that I wonder whether it’s a cardboard cut-out.

“Is that your dog?” I ask.

“No, it came with the apartment. Yes, it’s my dog,” the man snaps. “Get out!”

My phone starts ringing. I should go, leave this guy and his dog in peace, but he’s irked me so badly that I want to irk him right back.

Is “irk” your word of the day, Ella?

So instead of leaving, I stay right where I am and answer the phone.

“Ella speaking,” I say sweetly.

The beautiful stranger throws his hands into the air and huffs out a sharp exhale.

“Have you forgiven me yet?” Deacon asks. He sounds exasperated, but it’s me who should feel like that, not him.

My sweetness quickly sours. “No, I haven’t. What do you want?”

“Where are you?”

“Why do you care where I am?”

He sighs. “Because we need to talk, Ell.”

I tap my foot, deciding to annoy two men at once.

“I’m at Barnaby’s.”

A pause. I can almost picture him running his hands through his hair. “What the fuck are you doing there?”

“You’re the detective; you figure it out.” I hang up on him.