3. The Raving Thoughts
The Spectrum DesignStudio hums with low electric energy. The usual clicks and clacks, punctuated by the murmur of hushed conversations, are muted today. It feels like the vibrant world of color and creative energy has been drained of its lifeblood, leaving behind a pale, anemic shell.
I look up from the keyboard. The acrid scent of stale coffee hangs in the air, unlike the usual burst of fresh-brewed energy. The soft hum of the computer fans drones in my ears, a digital world that feels far away from the thoughts whipping up a storm inside me. Even the Beethoven track I”ve got playing through my earphones, usually my sanctuary, can”t penetrate the fog of my thoughts.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, paralyzed. The words for the new campaign, words that usually flow like paint from my brush, feel trapped in quicksand. Last night’s intoxicating blend of bodies replays in my mind like a broken record. A delicious, hot, jazzy soundtrack on repeat. I can still feel the heat of his body pressed against mine, the taste of his lips, and the raw urgency of his need. The way Alexander’s hands moved over me, tracing the curves of my body with a touch that ignites a wildfire within.
But the warmth of my thoughts quickly fades, replaced by a shadow of doubt, like a rogue inkblot. What was it about his family that he wanted to tell me? I can’t shake his words. They’re like a prickly thorn nestled in the rose garden.
A familiar face appears at my office door. “Hey, Ava,” Dorthea says, “What’s going on?”
I force a smile, focusing on Dorthea’s blue highlights and subtle wrinkles. “Just the campaign, I guess.” I turn my attention to the screen, but the colors feel flat, the textures lifeless.
She moves closer. “You’ll solve it. You always do,” Dorthea says, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder.
My nod is almost involuntary, and my gaze is drawn to a figure walking past my office. The sight of him makes my jaw clench, a familiar tightness constricting my throat. Dorthea, with her sharp eyes, notices him, too.
“That Cole,” Dorthea says, “You know? He’s actually turned into a decent human being. Who would’ve thought?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s blossomed,” I reply, my sarcasm biting. “Cole Cohan. A regular mother Theresa. You must be jokin’ Dorthea?”
Fucking assault-Cole.
I remember Cole’s touch, the way his fingers grazed my skin, the way his eyes glinted with a cruel pleasure as he ran his fingers up my thigh. Cold fear claws its way back, freezing me in place. I remember the powerlessness I’d felt as he slipped his rough fingers inside me, his words a bitter echo in my mind: “You look so good when you’re afraid.”
Snap out of it, Ava.
“He raised my salary a few months ago, and I heard he started a charity for women, a shelter of sorts,” she continues.
What is this upside-down world?
I widen my eyes, drawing them away from my screen. “Another joke?”
Dorthea shakes her head, her wild curls bobbing as she glances at my screen, “I like what you’re doing with the colors.”
My eyes flicker to a point on the screen, a splash of crimson red, a color that makes my breath catch in my throat. My body stiffens as the memory works its way into my consciousness, sharp and unwelcome. The memory of Mendel dying in Alexander’s arms, the blood running down his stomach, staining the pavement red. Crimson red.
“It’s a challenging brief,” I manage in a strained voice. I try to force a smile and erase the memory, but the chill remains.
Dorthea continues to chat about upcoming design projects. She’s like a hummingbird, flitting from one project to the next, her energy boundless. I find myself both drawn to and intimidated by her vibrant chaos.
A tall, blond figure enters my office, his eyes twinkling with playful mischief.
“Hey, beautiful,” Mark says, his smile a dazzling white against his tanned features. His eyes are iron-locked on Dorthea. “You look busy.”
“Oh, you know how it is, Mark. Deadline pressure,” Dorthea says, tilting her head and winking at him.
He enters, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, towering over her. “You know, I could always help you with that pressure.”
“Thanks for the offer, Mark,” she replies, laughing and throwing her head back. She’s twenty years his senior, but he’s her latest “boy toy,” and it seems to make her happy.
I turn to my screen as they slip out of the room, giggling like love-sick teenagers. I try to refocus on the design project, but the Raven’s threat from last night surfaces, a dark cloud hovering over my mind.
Is Alexander right? Should we leave Port Haven?
The Raven is like a ghost, a phantom haunting the city. He pulls strings, but nobody knows who he is or what he truly wants. Port Haven hasn’t always been a place where shadows lurk, and for a year, it was semi-quiet. But now it has become a smuggling hub, a haven for the outcasts and the outlaws. And the old Veles Network, perhaps led by the Raven, has taken crime to a new level.
My chest tightens, a knot twisting in my stomach. Leaving this city feels like betraying everything Mom and Dad built, everything I am. I can still see John and Elaine Parker— their names whispered together— in the paintings my mother made, the laughter echoing in our tiny apartment, and their faces in the family photos. I remember Dad”s hands, calloused and warm, cooking us dinner in the kitchen, his eyes twinkling as he looked at us. I”ll never forget the feeling of coming home after a long day, their love wrapping around me. That tiny apartment was more than just a place— it was a haven, a love that will never fade.
But are you willing to pay with your life to stay here, Ava?
I take a deep breath and narrow my eyes. A newfound determination takes hold, seeping through my veins.
This city is mine, and I won’t be driven away.
The idea of confronting the Raven takes root in my mind, just as I told Alexander last night. I need to know more about him. I open a new browser window and type “The Raven,” but I feel stupid. Why would he be online? He’s a ghost, a man who operates in the shadows. I’m being ridiculous.
Still, my fingers fly across the keyboard, searching for any information about The Raven. But the search results are frustratingly thin. I click on a random link, a website for a local opera company. A picture of a sleek, dark-haired figure with piercing blue eyes stares back at me. His features seem eerily familiar. A strange, unsettling feeling creeps into my gut. But that”s all I get. There”s no more information. Nothing else online for me.
I’ll need to talk to someone instead, and I know exactly who. I need to be careful, though. The last time I tried to dig into the underworld, things went bad, very bad.
I lay eyes on a small, white envelope on my desk, its edges slightly frayed.
Where did that come from? It wasn’t here this morning.
I pick it up, my fingers tracing the smooth surface. It’s unsealed, the contents visible. A sentence is written in a neat, cursive script: “Mark is not who you think he is.”
My heart stutters, and I bite my lip. My intuition screams that this is not a joke, not a prank. It’s a threat or a warning. Mark? Dorthea’s boy toy?
The knock on my door is soft, almost apologetic. I look up, startled, to see Cole standing in the doorway. A hesitant shuffle replaces his usual confident swagger. His hands fidget, twisting the fabric of his shirt.
I make sure to stuff the envelope under a pile of papers discreetly.
“Can we talk?” he asks, his voice a low murmur.
I sigh, my gaze returning to the screen. “Talk?” I say, my voice flat, uninterested.
“I want to apologize,” he says.
Great, my boss is apologizing for almost raping me a year ago. I scoff; the irony of the situation hit me with a wave of bitter amusement.
“Fuck off, Cole,” I hiss.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” he says, his shoulders slumped, his eyes downcast.
“The hell I won’t,” I say, my voice hardening. “You sexually assaulted me. You’re lucky to have a job still.”
He shuffles around the room, trying to choose whether to look at me or run out of the office. Instead, he stops. “I’m in therapy, Ava. Trying to get better,” he says, his voice hesitant.
“Sure–”
“My therapist told me to make amends— or try to— some things are — unforgivable, I know–” he says, his voice trailing off.
“She’s a smart woman,” I snap, my gaze fixed back on my screen.
“Hey, I know this might be a lot, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I’m just here to offer you some help if you need it.” His voice is sincere, but it’s also laced with an undercurrent of something else—
“Help?” I say sarcastically. “You’re the one who—” I stop myself, my jaw clenching. I don’t want to get into it, not with him.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, my tone curt.
He looks taken aback. “I didn’t mean—”
He opens his mouth to respond, but I cut him off. ”Don”t try to be my savior, Cole. I”m not going to be your redemption project. Now, please just leave.” My voice is firm, leaving no room for argument.
He smooths down his white shirt, a nervous gesture I”ve noticed before. His hand twitches towards his tie, but he stops himself. He looks as if he’s about to say something else, but instead, he sighs and turns away. People are staring at me, and then their eyes drift to Cole. Their eyes carry looks of pity.
Am I supposed to feel bad about asking him to leave? His visit leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. Instead, I close my office door, the click of the lock a satisfying sound.
I look down at my phone, searching for a message from Alexander. There’s nothing. I type out a message: ‘You promised me honesty.’
A few moments later, his reply appears: ‘About what?’
I type: ‘Your family.’
‘It’s not always about honesty, Ava. Sometimes it’s about survival. Let’s talk later. I’ll explain.’
His words make me shudder, and something rises within me, a simmering anger. The veins in my temples throb, pulsating. Furrowing my brows, I look at the message again. He promised me honesty, no matter how fucked up the truth is. He’s hiding something.
A few minutes later, another message appears on my screen, a single sentence that catches my breath.
It’s Alexander again. ‘She’s gone.’
Gone? Who’s gone? My fingers tremble as I click to reply, but another message pops up before I can answer. ‘They called me and said they can’t find her–’ The message ends abruptly, leaving me chilled. The words hang in the air, unfinished, like a shattered mirror reflecting a thousand unsettling possibilities.
My breath intensifies. ‘Michelle?’ I type, my fingers hovering over the send button, but I hesitate. What if asking is the wrong move? What if it pushes him further into the shadows, further away from me? I feel like I’m already losing him, secret by secret.
But I press send anyway. One second later, ”Yes” flashes on my screen.