Lielit
We were at my favourite restaurant for my thirtieth birthday when that sensation crept back—the unmistakable feeling of being watched.
This time it was sharper, colder, and it made the hair along the back of my neck rise.
I was about to glance around when the waitress arrived, carefully setting our food down between us.
“You look a little peaky tonight,” Grandma said, because she never missed a thing.
“Someone walked over my grave,” I murmured back.
“Probably that Darryl boy,” Grandad muttered under his breath.
“He’s been out of the picture for ages,” I said with a shrug.
They didn’t know about the messages. Or the death threat.
“I never liked him,” Dad added.
“You didn’t say that when they were dating, dear,” Mum said with a smirk.
“The platter looks amazing,” I said quickly, steering the conversation away.
I couldn’t change their minds about marriage and children. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t tried.
“It would be nice to see you happy and settled before I die,” Grandma said softly.
A chair scraped sharply across the tiled floor somewhere behind me. I ignored it and focused on her instead.
I reached across the table and took both her hands in mine.
“What makes you think I’m not happy now?” I asked gently.
Her smile came slowly, the fine lines around her eyes deepening—not with disappointment, but with warmth.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I suppose times have changed.”
My parents began separating the lamb from the bone, piling rice onto their plates. An entire leg of lamb would keep them occupied for at least an hour.
My grandparents bickered. My parents tried to nudge the conversation into safer territory. And I leaned back, letting the noise wash over me, content—for the moment—to simply watch them all.
?
?
?
When I got into work the following morning, Anj had left a card and a present on my desk.
She wasn’t in yet, so she must have stopped by late on Friday.
She wasn’t just my employee—she was a friend who’d been with me for most of the journey.
We always exchanged small gifts on birthdays and Christmas.
Long gone were my partying and clubbing days.
I’d poured those years into nurturing my baby—Her Glow.
I picked up the card.
Happy 30th Birthday
Behind You
all your memories
Before You
All your dreams
Around You
all who love you
Within You
all you need
It was so her. I smiled and opened it.
I know you get weirded out by sentiment and gifts, so I left this on your desk.
Hope you had a fantastic birthday.
Love you,
Anji
XOXO
She was too damn sweet.
I set the card neatly on my desk and sat down, untying the black ribbon around the small silver box. Inside was a miniature bottle of Prosecco, hazelnut praline chocolates, and a tiny jewellery case. I opened it to find a pair of gold earrings—delicate hibiscus flowers, simple but striking.
She knew my style.
I shook my head, smiling. I’d need to seriously step up my game this Christmas.
I put the earrings on.
Anji bounced in a few moments later with our coffees in hand, setting mine down on my desk.
“Morning. Nice earrings,” she said with a wink.
“Good morning—and thank you. You have excellent taste,” I grinned back.
“I’m aware,” she replied, smug. “But I’m glad you liked them. Oh—this came for you after you left.” She lifted a black envelope from her tray.
“Who the heck uses black envelopes?” I asked, arching a brow.
“Another weirdo?” she said with a smirk.
My name was handwritten in white ink. No return address. No postage stamp.
I tore it open—but before checking the contents, something made me lift the envelope to my nose.
Citrus, faintly. Beneath it, cedar-wood and white cypress. Clean. Expensive. The kind of scent used in high-end hand washes and lotions.
Inside, there was no letter. Just a single card.
Black.
Are you ready to play?
This wasn’t Darius.
And I couldn’t think of anyone I knew who would send me something like this.
“A secret admirer?” Anji murmured beside me, making me jump.
I scrunched the envelope and card together and tossed them into the bin.
“No. More like a creep. Who hand-delivers something like that?”
“Mm. True,” she said thoughtfully. “Who wants to play games unless you’re a child?”
“Exactly. I barely have time to shower and sleep,” I muttered.
I brushed it off, but it kept tugging at my attention throughout the day. I didn’t like not knowing who had sent it—and I liked the tone even less.
The week resumed like any other—meetings stacked too close together, production reports, supplier calls, and the constant hum of growth that never really slept. On the surface, nothing was wrong.
Until my share price dipped.
It wasn’t dramatic. No crash. No panic. Just a small drop on Monday morning. Barely a twitch. I checked again after lunch—still down, but only fractionally. By Tuesday, it dipped again. And again on Wednesday.
I reached out to the firm that had helped take Her Glow public. They were calm. Reassuring. This was normal after a strong launch, they said. A correction. Early investors rebalancing. The market settling into itself.
“It will even out,” they told me.
I wanted to believe them.
I kept working.
By Thursday, the numbers still hadn’t recovered. They weren’t plummeting—but they weren’t stabilising either. It was like watching a slow leak you couldn’t quite locate. Everything looked fine. Orders were still strong. Demand hadn’t dipped. Our supply chain was holding steady.
But my instincts wouldn’t let it go.
By Friday morning, the feeling had settled deep in my chest—heavy and persistent. The kind that didn’t come from spreadsheets or projections, but from somewhere quieter. Older.
Something was wrong.
I was reviewing payroll when my phone rang. Dad’s name lit up the screen. That alone made my stomach tighten. He never called during work hours unless it mattered.
“They’ve made me redundant,” he said.
Just like that.
Eighteen years. Same company. No warnings. No gradual phasing out. One meeting. A handshake. A severance package that sounded generous until you realised it was meant to soften the blow of being discarded.
“They said it was restructuring,” he added, his voice steady in that way he used when he didn’t want me to hear the crack underneath. “Nothing personal.”
Nothing personal, never meant that.
I closed my office door and sat down slowly, my fingers tightening around the edge of my desk. Dad wasn’t careless. He wasn’t underperforming. He was loyal to a fault. The kind of employee companies built slogans around—and then quietly cut loose.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and hated how small the words felt.
“It’s alright,” he replied. “I’ll be fine. Just… thought you should know.”
After we hung up, I didn’t move for a long time.
By the end of the day, I had three more emails flagged for review—two suppliers suddenly renegotiating terms, one logistics partner delaying a routine shipment without explanation. Individually, they were manageable. Together, they formed a pattern I didn’t like.
It was subtle. Strategic. Like someone was trying to squeeze me out.
It wasn’t uncommon for competitors to try to kill off another company. That was business.
This didn’t feel like business.
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying the week in my head. The falling numbers. The polite reassurances. Dad’s voice on the phone.
I thought about the black envelope.
About the message I’d thrown away.
Are you ready to play?
I rolled onto my side and told myself not to be ridiculous.
Businesses didn’t get haunted.
Markets didn’t stalk you.
But as sleep finally crept in, one thought refused to let go:
This didn’t feel like chance.