Chapter 8
Laurette Devereux
Brunch: where the mimosas are bottomless, but spilling the tea is the real main course.
The restaurant where I’m meeting the girls is tucked along a tree-lined street, known for its bottomless mimosas, overpriced brunch, and decor designed to be photographed.
The brick is nearly swallowed by ivy. Inside, chandeliers hang low over velvet booths, casting soft gold over plates of avocado toast and too many hangovers in designer sunglasses.
I’m the first one here. Of course I am. I don’t do late. Not to court, not to dinner, not to this. If I’m going to dissect my potential stalker over chicken and waffles, I’m damn well going to be on time.
The hostess leads me to a corner booth, half-hidden behind a wall of greenery and a strategically placed wine rack. I’m grateful. Fewer ears this way. Not that it matters much in New Orleans. This is a city where secrets spill as easily as drinks, and nobody flinches.
Jazz drips from the speakers, smooth and slow. The scent of maple syrup clings to the air, chased by smoked bacon and something sweet rising warm from the ovens. It’s indulgent. Familiar. An atmosphere designed to convince you nothing bad happens here.
Eden’s the next to arrive, dressed in black tailored trousers, an ivory silk camisole, and low-heeled sandals that click against the floor. She slides into the booth, slips off her sunglasses, and studies me.
“Girl… you look like hell,” she says.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t have getting drugged or dick-sucking betrayal on my bingo card this year. So no, I’m not exactly in my glow-up era.”
Marissa floats in next, all breezy elegance in a sage-green wrap dress, nude block heels, and a crossbody bag worth more than three months of a typical mortgage. Her oversized sunglasses slide down her nose as she sinks into the booth with a practiced sigh.
“Don’t say it,” she warns. “I know I’m late.”
“You are, but you look fabulous doing it, so I’ll let it slide.”
Eden smirks. “Brielle’s later than you, so it doesn’t count. The only person who’s late is the last one through the door.”
She eyes me again, head tilted. “Shit, girl. Have you slept at all?”
Gotta love honest friends. Keeping me humble, one soul-crushing truth at a time.
“Well, at least my emotional trauma has a matching aesthetic.”
The truth? I spent half the night checking locks and the other half staring at that napkin, willing it to whisper his name. Every time I closed my eyes, his silhouette returned—tall, still, calm as death in the grainy light of my camera feed.
In comes Brielle. White wide-leg trousers, a blush blouse knotted at the waist, and gold bangles that chime with every move. She plops into the booth, tosses her sunglasses on the table, and steals my mimosa without blinking.
I arch a brow. “Please… help yourself.”
“I’m already behind,” she says, wiping her mouth. “So let’s cut the shit. Whose balls are we busting today?”
Eden raises her Bloody Mary. “I was waiting for Brielle before asking the same thing. Spill it, Devereux.”
I glance around the restaurant, eyes skimming velvet booths and mirrored walls, and lean in across the table. My voice drops low, meant only for them.
“Someone who was at Leviathan on Friday night followed me home.”
All three of them freeze, lips parted, eyes wide and unblinking.
“And he left a note in my mailbox.”
Marissa’s brow creases. “What kind of note?”
“Personal. Obsessive. And not signed with a name. Just the letter B.”
Brielle snatches my empty mimosa glass and flags the server with a sharp wave. “We’re gonna need more alcohol.”
She slams the glass back down and turns to me, wide eyes. “What did the note say?”
I unlock my phone, tap the first photo, and slide it across the table. A white square marked with a black serpent coiled at the center.
“A napkin?” Marissa asks, squinting.
Eden leans closer. “That’s definitely Leviathan.”
I swipe to the next image. The back. Bold, slanted handwriting sprawls across it—undeniably male, unapologetically sure.
Not a note. A promise.
Careful what you wish for, Laurette.
You have my attention.
—B
Eden’s eyes widen, her Bloody Mary forgotten in her hand. “Oh, damn, Laurette.”
Marissa gasps, one hand flying to her chest. “Oh my God. That’s insane.”
Brielle lets out a low whistle, eyes locked on the screen. “Shit, that’s hot. I mean, it’s also a little terrifying. But, like… hot, terrifying.”
“It’s not hot, Brielle,” Eden snaps. “It’s stalking.”
“I didn’t say she should date him,” Brielle says. “I’m just saying, the man’s got flair.”
Marissa reaches for my hand, her fingers tight around mine. “What are you feeling?”
There’s a part of me that is afraid, but another part isn’t. Not even close.
I look down at the napkin again and the slanted scrawl on the back.
“I don’t know what I feel.”
And it’s the truth. But it’s also a lie.
Eden shakes her head, eyes flashing. “Honey, you should’ve called us the second it happened.”
If I had, they’d have shown up with charcuterie and Chardonnay, camped out in my living room like a wine-fueled SWAT team, already drafting a neighborhood watch manifesto and assigning shifts.
“Don’t worry. I filed a report with Tobias.”
Eden exhales and nods. “Good. Keep him looped in on everything, no matter how small. If you so much as get a weird text, I want you to notify him about it.”
Brielle takes a long sip of her mimosa, gaze dancing over the rim of her glass. “You know… he could be watching you right now.”
Marissa stiffens. “Brielle, that’s not funny.”
“Stop romanticizing this. It’s terrifying,” Eden snaps.
Brielle raises her hands in mock surrender, lips curling into a devilish smile. “Okay, okay, but hear me out. Don’t you think there’s something magnetic about a man who listens that closely and then acts on it?”
Marissa crosses her arms. “Magnetic? No. More like intrusive, creepy, and illegal.”
My phone rests on the table, screen still aglow with the photo of that napkin.
I glance out the window toward the street just beyond the glass. He could be out there, watching me right now.
That thought shouldn’t send a rush through me. It shouldn’t make my breath catch or my pulse race the way it does.
But I won’t let them see it.
I lift my mimosa and take a slow sip. “If he’s watching, he knows I’ve involved the police. He’ll back off. Problem solved.”
Marissa leans in, brows drawn tight. “If he’s done his homework, he’s figured out who you are in this city. He doesn’t want to fuck with you.”
Brielle shrugs, her eyes never leaving mine. “We should go through every photo from last night. Maybe he’s in one of them.”
Duh. I’m a fucking ADA. Why didn’t I think of that?
Eden nods, already pulling out her phone. “Oh, that’s a good idea.”
Marissa opens her gallery, eyes scanning the screen. “I took a ton of pictures that night. He has to be in one of them.”
I open mine too. Group selfies. Laughing faces. Us, front and center. Behind us? Nothing. No strangers lurking. No shadowed figures looking at us from the edges. Just the usual—warm lights, brick walls, distracted waitstaff. Nothing suspicious.
Marissa’s photos are more of the same.
Brielle flips through hers. Still nothing.
Then Eden, always the detail-obsessed one, pulls up a wide-angle shot she took. It’s the full bar—dim, moody, scattered bodies and flickering candles. She scrolls back, then freezes.
“Wait. This could be something.”
She taps the screen and zooms in. “What about this guy?”
We all lean in.
The photo is grainy, softened by the low light, but there’s a man at the bar behind us. Broad shoulders, dark clothes, sitting alone.
My pulse jumps. “Y’all, that might be him.”
Eden squints. “You can’t even see his face. Just the back of his head and his build.”
I lean closer, eyes narrowing. “The clothes match. It’s what he was wearing in the footage outside my house.”
Brielle points. “Wait—look in the mirror. Behind the bar. That reflection.”
And there it is. Half a face. Powerful jaw. Shadowed eyes.
Brielle grins. “He’s hot.”
Marissa scowls. “Brielle, can you not?”
“What?” Brielle shrugs, unapologetic. “He is.”
I pinch the screen and zoom in, but the more I enlarge it, the worse it gets. Pixels blur into static, and details smudge into suggestions.
Hell, I couldn’t pick him out in a lineup.
Eden looks between us, her expression serious now. “So what happens next?”
“I’ll send it to Tobias. Someone in tech or evidence might be able to clean it up.”
Marissa leans in, eyes still fixed on the photo. “Leviathan would have cameras. And you’re the assistant DA. You could get the footage, couldn’t you?”
It’s not a no… but it’s not a yes either.
“I’d need a judge to sign off before we could pull anything. And we’re not at that point.”
Yet.
Eden stirs her Bloody Mary with her straw. “What do you think this is? A threat? Or a twisted crush?”
I glance down at the phone again, at the napkin, at his penmanship.
“I think someone overheard what I said… and now they’re testing me. Checking to see if I meant it.”
Brielle’s lips curl into a wicked grin. “If this is the guy, I’d risk a little danger. Some men are worth the burn.”
I press my lips together, fighting the heat crawling up my spine. “I was just burned, and I’m not looking to be scorched.”
Brielle leans in, eyes glittering. “Be honest. You don’t hate this.”
I say nothing.
“You like that he’s watching. That he sees you. That he picked you.”
Truth bangs against my ribs. Because she’s not wrong. I do like it a little—the attention, the intensity, the possibility.
Someone out there wants me badly enough to follow. To watch.
I just can’t tell if I’m being adored… or hunted.
“I don’t like this, Brielle.”
She smiles back, knowing better. “You do. But you’re not ready to admit it. Not after Jon David. And that’s okay.”
The table goes quiet. Tension winds tight, stretching between us.
Brielle’s voice drops, soaked in mischief. “Honestly? The best revenge on Jon David would be letting some gorgeous psycho ruin you in bed.”
Marissa frowns. “That’s not revenge. That would be putting herself in danger.”
Eden meets her gaze. “True revenge is refusing to break. It’s owning your story instead of letting him write the next chapter.”
Brielle’s eyes blaze. “Moving on and getting the best fuck of your life is revenge too, the kind that makes him irrelevant.”
Marissa tilts her head, and her voice cuts. “But is it revenge if what he wanted was someone with a dick? Does that still count?”
Brielle lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Marissa. That was savage, even for you.”
Savage. But true.
The words sting because they cut close to something I haven’t said out loud.
Eden reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Whatever you need, we’ve got your back.”
Brunch winds down. We linger over the last bites of brioche French toast and drain what’s left of our drinks. We push our plates aside, and our laughter fades to murmurs.
Reality sets in.
We gather our things, and slide out of the booth.
Marissa hugs me. “Call if anything seems off, day or night.”
Eden kisses my cheek. “And don’t be too brave, okay? Even brave girls need backup sometimes.”
“I know.”
“Text us if he leaves another love note. Bonus points if it’s scented,” Brielle says, slipping on her sunglasses. “And when he turns out to be hot, unhinged, and your soulmate, don’t forget who called it.”
“Brielle, you need to stop reading those damn stalker books.”
“Never,” she says. “And I have a list of favorites if you’re interested.”
“I’ll let you know.”
We part ways at the curb in a tangle of soft laughter. I walk to my car, unlock the door, and slide into the seat, fingers quick to lock it behind me.
Once I’m alone, I pull out my phone and open the photo Eden sent.
That reflection in the mirror pulls me in again. His face is only half visible, caught in a sliver of glass, veiled in shadow and suggestion.
But even grainy and distant, he radiates something I can’t name. Something that says more is hidden than shown.
I zoom in until the image fractures, each detail dissolving like it’s trying to hide.
He was right there. So close. Watching. Listening.
Unseen.
He followed me. And now... he feels closer than ever.
I don’t know what that makes him, but I know what it makes me.
Intrigued.