Chapter 22
PIP
Piglet basks comfortably in the crook of my arm as Snickers leads me through his favorite trail in Central Park.
His arm around me feels warm despite the February chill. I try to ignore how natural this all feels. As if we’re in a ‘real romance.’
“You know,” he says, steering us around the Central Park lake, “for someone who claims to hate this arrangement, you’re getting pretty good at the devoted fiancée act.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.” I tilt my face up to his, with my practiced, adoring smile. But as I do so, it suddenly doesn't feel so practiced anymore.
“Though you might be overselling it with all those dreamy gazes.”
“Method acting,” he counters, pulling me closer as Kit snaps photos in the near distance. “I’m fully committed to my role.”
Something flutters in my stomach at his nearness, but I blame it on the cold.
A moment later, a mechanical whir cuts through the air.
Alarmed, Piglet squirms out of my arms, dropping on the dirt trail. He strains at the leash still around his neck, looks up at the sky, and yips.
“What is that?" I look up to see a hovering object in the near distance. "A drone?”
"Yes," Snickers confirms as the object dips lower. Something blood red dangles beneath it—a small box painted like a Chinese takeout container.
The drone moves closer to our group, as if delivering an offering meant just for us.
Then the box drops, landing softly in the snow.
Before anyone can move, Piglet lunges forward, ripping the leash from my hand.
“Piglet, no!”
My scrappy French Bulldog races down the path with excess puppy energy.
He skids to a stop near the box, grabbing its corners with his teeth. Then he uses his claws to shred the foil wrapping.
The two of us are joined by Kit as we hurry after him.
A breeze kicks up, scattering torn bits of red paper across the pristine white snow.
Kit reaches for the box and opens it. Her hand hovers over the contents. “Oh my.”
I lean in—and gasp.
Inside are photos of Snickers and me that seem to have been taken the night I rescued him at Rock Center. Vicious red slashes mark my face in every image.
“Look! A note!” Kit pulls out a white sheet of paper. Jagged letters, cut from magazines, form a crude message:
You don’t belong in his world. You don’t deserve him. He’s mine. Stay away!
A shiver shoots down my spine.
The meaning is unmistakable.
This blood-curdling message—this threat—is meant for me.
Snickers leans in, reading over my shoulder.
His countenance is carefully neutral, but his jaw is tight—too tight.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve seen something like this, is it?”
Snickers’ silence is enough of an answer.
Piglet presses against my leg, emitting a low growl.
Clare approaches, concern creasing her forehead. “What’s going on?”
Kit quickly fills her in, just as her phone buzzes. She checks the screen—and gasps.
“It’s an email,” she says quietly. “Asking if Pip enjoyed the ‘gift.’”
Snickers’ face darkens. “Who sent it? What’s the return address?”
“Looks fake. A junk account.”
I swallow hard. “This message is meant for me! Who could have sent it? Snickers, could it have been one of your fans?”
"It's possible...”
“Should we go to the police?” I ask, turning from Kit to Clare.
Clare shakes her head. “What good would it do? I don’t think there’s a law against sending creepy notes by drone.”
She folds her arms. “Besides, informing the police and going public with the note will put an end to our Eternal Love campaign before it starts."
"But whoever sent this might take a more dangerous step next time," I say.
Clare looks at Snickers. “It’s your call.”
He glances at me, then meets Clare’s gaze. “I better call Harrison Blake. Tell him what’s happened.”
Clare nods her agreement.
The three of us watch Snickers as he moves away, his shoulders tense as he taps at his phone and begins speaking.
When he returns, his jaw is set. “Blake says to handle it internally. No police, no press. He wants the campaign to continue.”
“Do you think this person is dangerous?” I ask, looking down at the photos.
“I think it’s a bluff,” says Snickers, his voice steady but his jaw still tense. “It’s happened many times before. Fans get possessive. But if you want to drop the campaign, we understand.” He meets Clare’s gaze. “Don’t we, Clare?”
“Of course,” she says after a brief hesitation.
“No,” I say, thinking of Aunt Vivian’s dream gallery—and all the work Snickers and I have done to repair his and his company’s image. “Let’s continue on.”
“Good. It’s settled,” Clare says, checking her watch. “We need to set up for the Brooklyn Bridge shoot. And it’ll take at least an hour to get there.”
“I’ll meet you there,” Snickers says, already tapping at his phone. “My driver will drop me. I need to make some business calls in private.”
“Okay,” I say, wondering what type of calls he’s even talking about. From what Kit said, he hasn’t yet fully taken on the CEO role at Woodward & Co. “See you there.”
I follow Clare and Kit towards our large van. Piglet relaxes in my arms as I stroke his glossy fur.
To my left, the catering crew are packing up their equipment, while the paparazzi hurriedly grab their things.
Silent Sara isn't among them. At least that I can see.
Could she have been the one to operate the drone? The one who created that horrific note?
Kit said still waters run deep.
I try to put that out of my mind.
To distract myself, I think about Aunt Vivian’s romantic story about the tree near the Brooklyn Bridge.
And how she and my uncle carved their initials into its bark to mark their love.
My uncle’s been gone for years now.
It’s a nice thought to know this ancient symbol of everlasting love still unites them.