Lielit
My mum and grandmother each held one of my hands as the speaker introduced my company. The accolade made me blush, emotion rising fast in my chest. To be recognised by one of London’s top business awards was no small feat.
“We have a special guest this evening who will present your award,” the woman continued. “Our kind and generous sponsor, Mr Blaidd Prothero.”
The spotlight swept across the room—then settled on an empty table.
“He’s probably nipped to the loo,” Mum said, patting my hand reassuringly.
“Bloody rude, if you ask me,” Dad muttered.
“No one asked you, son,” Grandma replied sharply.
“Think happy thoughts,” Granddad whispered to her.
The speaker cleared her throat, offering an awkward laugh. “That’s quite all right. If you’d like to come up, I’ll be happy to present it myself.”
I squeezed my special ladies’ hands, then stood, already mentally reciting my speech as I made my way forward.
When I accepted the award, I punched it into the air, my gaze locking on my family as they shouted and cheered from their seats.
They were my anchor. My constant reminder of who I was and where I came from. Their love, encouragement, and hard-earned wisdom meant more to me than any accolade ever could.
I drew in a steady breath, cleared my throat, and began my speech.
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“How many times are you going to watch that?” I groaned at Anj.
“Hey, the more times I watch it, the more YouTube pushes it,” she said, unfazed, jabbing the pause button. “You’ll be an internet sensation.”
She tilted her head, studying the frozen frame.
“Who was the guy meant to present you with the award, anyway?”
“No idea,” I said, lifting my hands to make exaggerated air quotes. “Probably someone very important.”
She shrugged and hit play again.
An email notification chimed, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding.
“The website’s back up,” I said.
“What was wrong this time?”
“No clue. Probably the same glitch as last time.”
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I paused on the platform, glancing both ways, scanning the crowd. A strange sensation crawled up my spine—the unmistakable feeling of being watched.
But everyone around me was absorbed in their own little worlds. Phones. Blank stares. Newspapers.
The tube roared in with its usual gust of wind, carrying the same stale scent, the same familiar announcement.
Mind the gap.
The doors slid open, and I was swept inside, packed tight like a tin of sardines. I reached up, gripping the handrail as the carriage lurched forward.
Five stops later, I squeezed out and started my usual walk home.
Only this time, the unease followed me.
I kept my pepper spray clenched in my hand.
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I was lying in bed, reading a book on Chinese and Ayurvedic medicine, when my phone pinged. With a yawn, I stretched my arm across the mattress, fumbling until my fingers closed around it.
I glanced at the screen.
Darius: Congratulations on winning your award. Do you want to catch up sometime?
“Yeah, no thanks,” I muttered, switching the phone to silent before dropping it back onto the nightstand.
Someone who hadn’t been there during the hard times but suddenly wanted access now that I was doing well wasn’t for me. I didn’t have the time—or the patience—for that kind of bullshit.
I yawned again and closed my book. Just as I was about to set it aside, something made me check my phone again.
More messages.
My stomach tightened.
What the hell, Lielit?!
Did you give my number to someone?
I’m being threatened.
Is this you?
If you don’t want to see me, just tell me. There’s no need for childish pranks.
If this doesn’t stop, I’m going to the police.
These are DEATH THREATS.
I sat up properly and opened the thread, reading through everything before replying.
Me: I have no idea what you’re talking about. You know I only have this number and my work one. Why would I threaten you?
A moment later, a screenshot appeared.
Unknown: If you don’t leave Lielit alone, fragments of your skull and brain matter will be smeared all over your shitty little Porsche. Because I will cave your fucking head into it.
Unknown: What did I tell you?
Unknown: Do it again. I fucking dare you.
Unknown: You’re dead.
“Fucking hell,” I breathed, staring at the screen as the weight of it settled in.
I tried calling him. It rang until it went to voicemail.
I tried again. Same result.
I rubbed my eyes and typed out a message.
Me: Pick up your phone. Those messages weren’t from me.
The reply came almost immediately.
Darius: Please leave me alone. I’m blocking your number.
My jaw dropped as I stared at the screen.
What the actual fuck was going on?
I reread the screenshots again. And again.
I mean, sure—I’d had intrusive thoughts before. Everyone did. But never like this. Never so vivid. So specific. These weren’t messages a rational human being would send.
And definitely not a woman.
So who was he?
How did he know what we were messaging—in real time?
A chill crept down my spine.
One thing was clear: someone had access to my messages.
I powered my phone down and set my alarm on my work phone instead. First thing in the morning, I’d take it somewhere—get it checked, scanned, whatever it was the tech people did.
Even after switching off the lamp, the unease lingered, clinging to me like a second skin. It wasn’t until sheer exhaustion dragged me under that my eyes finally closed.
Tomorrow.
I’d deal with it tomorrow.
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I found a shop not far from work. They ran an antivirus scan, but it came up clean. The final suggestion was either a factory reset or a new phone. Since everything was backed up, I opted for the reset.
The man walked me through it. Simple enough.
I felt a little better leaving the shop.
Poor Darius. I hoped he was okay. I briefly considered messaging him from my work phone, then thought better of it. The last thing he needed was more stress tied to me.
It wasn’t until I was halfway home that the thought hit me.
Whoever had sent those messages knew he owned a Porsche.
I frowned, tightening my grip on my bag.
Some people had far too much time on their hands. Didn’t they have jobs? Lives?
Creepy sick fuck.