Chapter 15
As soon as she stepped into her apartment that evening, Giselle knew something was wrong. The air felt different—thick, charged, like the remnants of something unsettled. A stillness lingered, unnatural and heavy, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
Standing in the doorway, she tightened her grip on her keys, sliding one between her fingers like a makeshift weapon. A self-defense trick she’d seen in a video, something that had seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, it felt pathetically inadequate.
The first thing she noticed was the dark corner of her living room.
The lamp at the end of the sofa—the quirky lamp she’d found at a thrift store—was off.
That wasn’t right. She had it plugged into a timer, a small comfort against the upcoming darkness of winter.
It should have been glowing softly, a welcoming beacon after a long day. But now, it was dark.
Her stomach twisted.
The second thing she noticed was the obstruction behind the door. Something was blocking it—something solid. A chair? A pile of something? Her first instinct was to peer around the door, to check what it was, but her gut told her not to. Don’t turn your back on the open space. Don’t be stupid.
She stood perfectly still, listening.
Silence.
But it wasn’t the peaceful kind of silence. This was different. She felt like she wasn’t alone.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the light switch.
There was a fifty-fifty chance the overhead light would actually work.
The wiring in this building was unreliable at best, dangerous at worst. But safety wasn’t something the people in this building could afford.
Everyone here was barely scraping by, too busy working multiple jobs to fight the property management company over failing electricity or broken locks.
The switch clicked, and the overhead light flickered to life. Relief flooded her for exactly one second. Then she saw it. Her apartment had been destroyed.
The couch cushions were slashed, foam spilling out like entrails. The end tables were shattered, their splintered legs jutting out at odd angles. The floor was littered with debris—papers, books, the remains of her thrift store decorations.
In the kitchen, every cabinet door stood open, gaping and empty. Her dishes lay in jagged pieces spread across the cracked linoleum. Even the cheap, plastic food containers she used to meal prep were crushed.
Giselle’s breath came in sharp, shallow bursts, her pulse pounding so hard it echoed in her ears. Her fingers clenched around her purse strap, gripping it like a lifeline as she tried to process what she was seeing—her home, torn apart, every personal belonging upturned, broken, violated.
This wasn’t random. This wasn’t just a thief looking for valuables. This was rage. A message.
“What…?” she gasped, barely able to get the word out. The air in her lungs felt too thick, too tight, like she was suffocating in her own fear.
“Ms. Carrington?”
The sudden male voice behind her made her jump, her heart pounding against her ribs painfully. She spun around so fast she nearly lost her balance, her pulse skyrocketing.
A man stood in the doorway, his arms awkwardly loaded with several large boxes.
“Sorry!” he said quickly, stepping back as if to reassure her. Still, his eyes widened at her reaction, and Giselle realized belatedly that she must have looked half-crazed with fear. “Didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am. I was asked to deliver these to you, ma’am.”
Before she could respond, his gaze moved past her, taking in the state of her apartment. His eyebrows shot up. “Wow! Someone is pissed off!”
Giselle swallowed hard, trying to steady herself, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “Pissed off” didn’t even begin to describe this. This wasn’t an act of frustration—this felt personal.
She turned back to the mess, her stomach twisting into knots. The senseless destruction, the deliberate targeting of every inch of her home—it sent an icy chill through her bones.
“Yeah,” she said, forcing the word out past the lump in her throat. “I guess so.”
She felt frozen, standing there like a fool, unsure what to do next.
Call the police? Call someone? The thought of calling the cops made her hesitate.
She didn’t exactly trust them, and she had a feeling this wasn’t something they could—or would—help with.
Especially since she lived in one of the poorer neighborhoods.
Police in this area tended to believe the worst of the residents.
“I should… check the rest of the place,” she murmured, mostly to herself. Then, turning back to the man, she swallowed hard. “Would you stay here for just a moment?”
The guy hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, sure, ma’am. If you want, I can call some guys. They’ll be here fast. No questions asked.”
Giselle’s brain short-circuited at that offer. She knew exactly what kind of guys he meant. She wasn’t na?ve. And for some reason, instead of picturing some unknown goons showing up, the first image that flashed in her mind was Dimitri.
Strong, powerful, completely in control.
She exhaled sharply, shaking the thought away.
Why was she thinking about him at a time like this?
Maybe because he never really left her thoughts.
Maybe because, deep down, she wanted someone like Dimitri here—someone who wouldn’t just stand there asking if she was okay, but who would make sure she was safe.
“No, thank you. I’ll be… fine.” Would she? Her eyes took in the destruction once more.
She hugged her purse tighter to her stomach, like that would somehow keep her grounded, and cautiously tiptoed through her apartment. Each step felt like she was walking deeper into a nightmare, her nerves stretched so tight she thought they might snap.
Her hands shook as she reached for the light switches, flipping them on one by one, illuminating the destruction.
Her den and kitchen were ruined, but when she pushed open the door to her bedroom, she let out a shaky breath. It was untouched. Her bathroom, too.
Giselle sagged against the doorway, relief momentarily overtaking the fear. Why hadn’t they ruined her bedroom, like they had everything else? It didn’t make sense. If they were looking for something, why not ransack the whole place?
Unless…! A cold shiver ran down her spine. Unless they found what they were looking for. She had no idea what that could be, but the thought made her insides twist with unease.
Forcing her feet to move, she walked back out into the living room, her steps careful as if the floor might collapse beneath her. The man was standing in the doorway, still holding the boxes.
She tried for a smile, but it came out stiff, forced. “Thanks. Everything’s fine. No one’s here.”
The lie sat heavy on her tongue.
The man frowned, not looking convinced. “Ma’am, are you sure? Do you want me to, at least, call the police?”
She should say yes. That was the logical response.
That’s what a normal person would do. But something in her gut told her that the police wouldn’t be much help.
Whoever did this had gone through a lot of trouble to send a message, and if they weren’t worried about breaking into her home, they probably weren’t worried about the authorities, either.
“No, thank you.” She reached out and took the boxes, grateful that her new clothes hadn’t been damaged during the invasion. She set them down on the floor because…well, because there wasn’t any other place to put them.
The man nodded, glanced again at the mess, then nodded again and turned around, leaving her to deal with the destruction.
Giselle let out a soft, humorless laugh, rubbing a hand over her face.
She wasn’t sure if she was laughing to keep from crying or if the absurdity of the situation was finally settling in.
Her home—her space—had been utterly destroyed, turned inside out like it was nothing.
It shouldn’t have mattered so much. It wasn’t much to begin with.
Just a tiny apartment filled with secondhand furniture and discount-store decorations.
But it was hers. The one thing in her life that she had built, piece by piece, with no help from anyone.
And now, someone had stomped through it like it was garbage, like her things—her life—were disposable. The realization settled heavily in her chest, pressing down like a weight.
She sighed, feeling her exhaustion catch up with her, but before she could sink too far into her thoughts, a familiar voice snapped her out of it.
“Zelly?”
Her head jerked up as the door swung open. She hadn’t even realized she’d left it ajar.
Craig stood there, swaying slightly, a lazy grin on his face.
Giselle let out a breath of relief. Craig. Her big brother. Her pain in the ass. Her protector, in some twisted way. He was family. He smelled faintly of marijuana, but not the sharp, acrid stench that signaled something stronger. He wasn’t completely strung out. That was good.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, already reaching out to hug him.
Craig leaned in, squeezing her with one arm before pulling back, taking in the wreckage behind her.
“Damn, Zelly. Did you have a party and forget to invite me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered, but the warmth of seeing him helped push back the cold fear that had settled in her stomach. “It’s good to see you.”
Craig shrugged, looking around. “What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted, sighing. Her hands twitched, itching to start cleaning up, to put the pieces back together, even though she knew some things were beyond repair.
Craig rocked back on his heels, rubbing his chin, his eyes darting from the smashed lamps to the slashed couch cushions, then to the overturned shelves. His expression twisted for the briefest second—was that guilt? Or had she only imagined that brief moment?
But why would her brother do this to her apartment? Dismissing the idea, she looked around.