POV Noelle
The package arrives on a Tuesday.
Not a dramatic day or night. Just a quiet afternoon when the city feels ordinary enough to trust. Maria has already left, and Luna is down for her nap. Owen is out—something about a meeting that sounded boring and safe and unimportant in the way he prefers now.
I doubt whether I should open it.
It’s small. Brown cardboard. No return address, and my name printed neatly on the label, spelled correctly, without flourish. That alone should have stopped me. No one uses my full name anymore unless they want something.
I carry it inside and set it on the kitchen counter. I stand there for a long moment, staring at it like it might move on its own.
“You’re being dramatic,” I mutter to myself. But my hands shake when I cut the tape.
Inside, there’s a flash drive. Black and unmarked, with a folded sheet of paper. That’s it. No bombs. Or blood. No warning sirens.
I unfold the paper first: You should remember this night. So should the police.
My stomach drops so hard I have to grip the counter.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.” But I already know. My body knows before my mind allows it.
The flash drive feels heavier than it should when I pick it up. Like it contains more than data. Like it holds a version of me I buried with my hands and my teeth and my will to survive.
I shouldn’t watch it. But still—
I plug it into my laptop. My fingers hesitate over the trackpad. For a moment, I consider closing it, calling Owen, letting him deal with it the way he deals with everything dangerous.
Then I think of Luna and press play.
The video is grainy, but clear enough. Security camera footage. The angle is wrong—too wide, too high—but the sound is there. My voice. Warren’s.
I see myself on the screen. Older than I feel now. Harder. With fear and fury carved into my posture.
“Noelle,” he says on the video, his voice slurred with confidence. “You really think you can—”
Then the gunshot. I flinch like it’s happening again.
The footage catches everything. The way he lunges. The way I don’t hesitate and how he falls. The way I stand there afterward, shaking, gun still raised like I don’t trust him to stay dead.
There’s no context. No lead-up and no explanation of why he deserved it. No fear. Just me, pulling the trigger.
I slam the laptop shut and stumble back, my breath coming too fast.
“Oh God…”
My knees give out. I sit on the floor, back against the cabinet, arms wrapped around myself like I can hold my ribs together. They have proof. Not rumor or implication. Evidence.
The paper said the police will receive it next. Not might. Will.
My first instinct is Owen. I reach for my phone—then stop. My thumb hovers over his name, and my chest tightens painfully.
If I tell him, he will react. He will take control. He will hunt and erase whoever sent this with a precision that scares even him now. He will drag himself back into the version of his life he’s been trying to outrun for months.
And worse—he will protect me by making himself the monster again.
I can’t do that to him. Not when he’s already holding himself together with restraint and effort and love that looks quieter but costs more.
I force myself to breathe slowly. In. Out. Count. In. Out. “Think,” I whisper. “Think.”
The doorbell rings, and I nearly scream.
I scramble to my feet, heart hammering, and peer through the camera feed. A young courier, bored and already looking at his phone. I don’t open the door but wait until he leaves, until the hallway outside feels empty again.
Then I lock the door. Again. I pace the apartment like a caged thing. My mind races ahead, spiraling through consequences.
Police. Trial. Headlines.
Heiress kills ex-boyfriend. Bodyguard husband involved? Was it self-defense—or something darker?
Owen’s name everywhere. Luna’s face eventually, blurred but present. My father dragged into it again. Everything ripped open.
“No,” I say aloud. “I won’t let that happen.”
I grab my phone and scroll until I find the one name that doesn’t come with history or love or uncontrollable violence.
Rhea Park. She answers on the second ring. “Noelle?”
“I need you,” I say, and my voice finally cracks. “Right now.”
There’s a pause. Then, sharp focus. “What happened?”
“I can’t explain over the phone. Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” I say. “I need you to come here. And I need you not to tell Owen.”
That pause is longer. “Noelle,” Rhea says carefully, “you don’t ask that unless—”
“Please,” I cut in. “Just trust me.”
“I’ll be there in twenty,” she replies. “Don’t touch anything.”
Too late. I hang up and sink back onto the couch, hands pressed to my face. My palms smell like cardboard and sweat and fear. I glance toward Luna’s room. She’s still asleep. Safe and unaware.
“I won’t let this touch you,” I whisper.
When Rhea arrives, she doesn’t knock loudly. Just two sharp taps. Controlled. She steps inside, eyes already scanning the room:
“Start talking.”
I hand her the paper first. Then the flash drive. She reads. Watches but doesn’t flinch.
“Fuck,” she says quietly when it ends. “Where did this come from?”
“It was delivered. Courier. That’s one way to put it,” I reply, my voice hollow.
“Anyone see him?”
“Building cameras might. Can you trace it?” I ask. “The footage?”
“Maybe,” she says. “Depends on how smart they were.”
“They’re smart enough to know this would destroy us.”
Rhea looks at me sharply. “Us?”
“Owen,” I say immediately. “Luna. Not me.”
She studies me for a long moment. “Have you told him?”
“No. He will burn everything down,” I say. “And I won’t be the reason he becomes that man again.”
Rhea exhales slowly. “You’re carrying too much alone.”
“I know,” I say. “But I need time. Just time.”
She nods once. “Okay. I’ll work on it. Quietly. And Noelle—” She hesitates. “Whoever sent this isn’t bluffing. This isn’t about money. This is leverage.”
After she leaves, the apartment feels too big. Too exposed. I move through the rooms, checking locks, closing blinds, listening to every sound like it might be the beginning of something worse.
When Owen comes home later, I almost break.
He kisses my cheek and asks about my day. Mentions Luna’s nap schedule like the world hasn’t tilted on its axis. I answer him. Smile. Lie.
I let him hold me that night. I let his arm settle around my waist, solid and warm and unaware. And as I lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the image replays behind my eyes.
The gunshot, and the body falling. The version of me the world was never meant to see.
Fear grips me—not for what I did. For what this will force Owen to become if it ever reaches him.
I swear, silently and fiercely, that I will handle this myself. No matter the cost.