Chapter 1 #2
The hour passes in a blur of acronyms, overlapping opinions, and rapid-fire debate.
Team leads volley ideas across the table, evaluating risks and weighing outcomes.
I keep pace, lifting my head, fingers flying across my laptop as I track it all—who said what, what it means, and what might come next.
By the time the meeting wraps and chairs slide back, I’m already halfway through mentally organizing my notes.
Then Daniel appears, walking in step beside me.
“That went well, huh?” he says, offering a warm, easy smile. “Looks like you’ve got a full plate for the next few weeks. It’s your first major project.” I return the smile. “Since you’ll be on my team, feel free to grab time on my calendar if anything’s unclear.”
My step falters, but thankfully I don’t face-plant on the floor. His team?
I blink and compose my expression. Keep it even.
Smile. Nod. Mentally tick off all the normal, expected reactions while pretending this isn’t the beginning of something wildly unexpected.
There’s a flicker of amusement in his expression, like he knows exactly what kind of curveball he’s just thrown.
“Wow.”
Yep. That’s it. My grand response. Clearly one of my finest moments.
To his credit, he waits. Patiently. Still smiling, completely unbothered, while I scramble for dignity. I take a breath and pull myself together. Redeem yourself now, for crying out loud.
“I mean—wow, but in a good way,” I add. “I’m ready for it. And yes, I’ll reach out if I have questions. Thanks for the heads-up.”
He gives me an approving nod and keeps walking, as if he hasn’t just altered the entire course of my Monday morning.
I slip back into my cubicle and try to suppress the cheesy grin threatening to take over my face. The second I sit down, I open my laptop, adrenaline still coursing beneath my skin. I outline everything—next steps, deadlines, people to follow up with, ideas worth refining.
This is it. Six months in, and I’m getting the chance to show I belong here. Now I just have to prove I’m more than the fancy title they gave me.
I get to prove I can hold my own.
The rest of the week disappears in a blur.
Back-to-back meetings, overtime prep work, and a flood of calendar invites that blur the boundaries between days.
By the time Saturday arrives, I’m so drained I barely notice—until my phone lights up with a gentle reminder: Kate’s birthday dinner.
And just like that, I’m snapped back into the present.
I stand in front of my closet as that familiar, creeping sense of wardrobe paralysis sets in. The I have nothing to wear spiral that shows up every time I have an event, sponsored—as always—by my love of not-so-cute cozy clothes and my spectacularly poor personal time management.
I scan the rows of neatly hung sweaters, dresses, and my ever-faithful work blazers, like one of them might suddenly transform into something effortlessly phenomenal.
Surprise. Nothing does. There’s only fabric and indecision staring back at me.
And then, like clockwork, Kate’s voice echoes in my head.
“Cece,” she’d say, full of dramatic exasperation. “You do all that damn running, you have that killer body, and this is what you’re wearing? Something my grandmother wouldn’t even pick up off the rack? Absolutely not, babes.”
Rude. But certainly not wrong.
Kate has been trying to overhaul my conservative scientist chic look since grad school.
And while I never mind blending in, I can already picture her face if I show up tonight in something practical and forgettable.
So I go deeper. Literally. I reach toward the back of my closet—the part I usually avoid.
The part reserved for impulse buys and just-in-case moments.
And there it is.
The dress.
Black. Laced. Daring. We’d found it together on a “treat yourself” Saturday that ended with iced coffee and a credit card balance I try not to think about.
The dress has sheer lace edging along the neckline, subtle side cutouts that play with shadow and skin, and a nude underlay that gives it just enough illusion to make you look twice.
It’s elegant. A little dangerous. The kind of dress that doesn’t just say you have plans—it says you are the plan. And maybe tonight, I am.
I slip into the dress and pair it with black heels and a small purse. Not too bad. Kate will be proud.
I glance at my phone, and my stomach drops.
6:40 p.m.
Shit.
By the time I step into the restaurant at exactly 7:15 p.m.—fashionably late by most standards—I’m still moving quickly, scanning for Kate.
Vita is one of her favorites. Cozy but elevated, with dim lighting, actual candlelit tables, and an old-world elegance that feels like a love letter to Italian romance.
The air smells like garlic, basil, and good wine.
I spot Ethan first—Kate’s newest potential someone—seated at the far end of a long table.
They’ve been seeing each other for about a month now, but she hasn’t said much.
Kate is honest about everything except her heart.
When it comes to relationships, she plays her cards close, waiting until things turn serious before giving anything a name.
Still, the way he’s looking at her right now says more than she’ll ever admit out loud.
“Happy birthday!” I call out, wrapping her in a warm hug as I reach the table.
Kate beams at me, her smile wide and genuine.
“Thanks, bestie.” She looks effortlessly beautiful, as always.
Her dark blonde hair falls in soft curls just past her shoulders, honey-toned highlights catching the glow of candlelight.
She’s five-foot-seven, all grace and confidence, with a presence that turns heads without even trying.
And then there’s me. Five-foot-three on a good day, petite but athletic, with a tendency to walk like I’ve got somewhere important to be. I stopped comparing us a long time ago.
There are at least ten people at the table already, with a few more still on the way.
I slide into the seat she saved for me, the buzz of conversation wrapping around us as I settle in.
Kate hands me a glass of wine mid-conversation, her attention split between me and a lively discussion with a few of her journalist colleagues from The Times about the latest must-try restaurants in the city.
One of her colleagues asks how we met. Even though Kate is chatting with someone else, she pauses immediately to jump in.
“So she shows up at my place,” Kate begins, “and she keeps glancing around, constantly checking some scribbles on her notepad.” She smirks at me, and I roll my eyes.
“Well, I did have to double-check the ad and make sure I wrote the right rent,” I say, half-joking as I defend myself.
“Doll, it was meant to be,” Kate replies, leaning back with a wink. “We were meant to be roomies. My parents didn’t care what you could pay—just that I found someone I vibed with. It was kismet.”
Her blue eyes sparkle, and I can’t help but smile. Some part of me knows she’s right.
The past couple of months, since I moved out of our shared apartment to start my job at SciCell, have definitely required some adjusting.
Dinner is incredible and unfolds with the kind of ease that only happens after generous pours of wine.
A few glasses in, we’re trading stories from our first year of graduate school, laughing like no time has passed at all.
Some of the stories have definitely been told before, but no one seems to mind.
After dinner, a handful of us decide to head to a new lounge Kate’s been raving about for weeks—Axis, one of her recent feature pieces.
In classic Kate fashion, she’s already texted the manager, confirmed a table, and secured a warm welcome before we even arrive.
It’s one of the perks of her job, and we’ve never been shy about enjoying it.
We’re escorted to a curved booth by a smiling cocktail server who hands us menus before disappearing back into the crowd.
As I settle into the emerald velvet seat, I take a slow look around and immediately understand the appeal.
Axis Lounge is extraordinary. Old Hollywood glamour filtered through a modern lens.
Crescent booths beneath glowing chandeliers, marble tables gleaming under soft light.
The space is moody but welcoming, layered with gold and green, glass and smoke.
Framed photos—some vintage, some recent—line the walls like a tribute to timeless cool.
Even the bar is glass, somehow engineered to be both delicate and bold. In the back corner, a DJ spins nostalgic R&B that fills the space without overpowering it.
“Don’t you just love it here?” Kate calls out, already swaying to the beat, not waiting for an answer.
“It’s amazing,” I say, and I mean it.
We order more red wine and champagne while Ethan and a friend dive into a passionate debate about football.
Kate and I pay them no mind, too busy singing along the second the DJ cues up We Found Love.
We’re halfway into the chorus—full Grammy performance mode, zero shame—when my phone lights up on the table.
I don’t recognize the number.
It’s loud around us now, so I hold up a hand to Kate and mouth I’ll be right back. She gives me a quick, concerned glance but doesn’t question it, nodding as I slip toward the entrance near the hostess stand.
“Hello?” I answer cautiously.
“Hello, may I speak with Chloe Caldwell?” a woman asks. Her voice is calm and professional.
“This is Chloe. Who’s calling?”
“This is the overnight security office at your apartment complex, Hamilton Terrace. One of our patrolling officers reported a break-in at your apartment.”
My breath catches. “Wait—what? Someone broke into my place? Were they caught?”
“I don’t believe so, Ms. Caldwell,” she says gently. “The police have been notified and are currently on site. Maintenance is replacing the locks, but we’ll need to issue you a new set of keys. Please stop by the security office when you can.”
I close my eyes, trying to center myself.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
“Okay,” I exhale. “I’m on my way. Thank you.”
I end the call and rush back to the table, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Kate sees my face instantly. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, my voice sounding far away. “There was a break-in at my apartment. Someone got in. I have to leave—they’re changing the locks, but I need to see what’s going on. I don’t know if anything was stolen. My laptop—my work stuff—”
Kate’s already on her feet, slipping an arm around my shoulders. “Cece. Hey. Deep breath. That’s not what matters right now. You’re safe. You weren’t home.”
I freeze.
I hadn’t even thought of that.
What if I had been?
The thought lands hard, hollowing out my chest. My heart begins to race, thoughts snapping and spiraling until I have to force my breathing into something steady just to stay upright.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I hate leaving like this.”
She shakes her head and hugs me tighter. “Go. Text me the second you get there.”
I nod, words failing me. After quick goodbyes, I grab my coat and purse and step out into the night.
The walk to the train feels longer than usual. Not because of the distance, but because of how exposed I suddenly feel. My place isn’t far from the restaurant, but right now it feels like another world. A world where I don’t know anyone in my building well enough to even tell me what’s happening.
As I wait on the platform, I keep staring down at my phone, willing it to tell me something more. Anything. The security office didn’t say whether mine was the only apartment hit, and the uncertainty gnaws at me.
What if they took everything?
My laptop.
That alone could wreck my first real shot at proving myself at work. Especially now, with the university project just beginning.
I sigh and glance around. The station is nearly empty, quiet in a way that makes the shadows stretch longer than they should. Just one other person stands nearby—a guy leaning against a pillar, maybe fifty feet down the platform, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, eyes fixed on the ground.
That’s when it really hits me how silent it is.
The kind of silence that wraps around you and makes you feel like you’ve wandered somewhere you shouldn’t be. I inch closer to the edge of the platform, craning my neck toward the tunnel, searching for any sign of the train. All I want is to get home. My leg bounces restlessly.
Then relief washes through me as the distant sound of the train breaks the quiet, light flickering faintly in the darkness.
Finally.
I lean forward for one last look, my thoughts tangled in unanswered questions about what happened in my apartment.
And then I feel it.
A presence behind me.
Close.
Too close.
No footsteps. No warning.
A scream rips through the station—sharp, sudden, terrifying—and only after it echoes back do I realize it’s coming from me.