POV Noelle
Dying wasn't on my to-do list this year, but apparently the universe decided to throw some razzle-dazzle into the mix.
I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed, drowning in lecture notes about macroeconomic theory that might as well be written in ancient fucking Sanskrit. Yellow highlighter in one hand, pink in the other, trying to color-code my way to academic success like some kind of organizational psychopath.
But my brain? My brain is everywhere except this overpriced textbook.
It keeps replaying last night on an endless loop.
The sound of shattering glass. Owen's knuckles going white on the steering wheel. The way Dad's face transformed from absent father to stone-cold criminal in about three seconds flat.
Real Hollywood action movie shit, except when bullets are flying at your head, it's not entertaining. It's fucking terrifying.
"Miss Noelle?" Maria's voice cuts through my spiral into PTSD territory.
"Yeah?"
Our housemaid pushes the door open, carrying a tea service that screams "we have money and we're not subtle about it."
"I thought you might want some chamomile. For the nerves."
"Thanks, Maria." I set down my highlighters and accept the cup.
Because refusing would hurt her feelings and she's literally the only person in this house who gives a shit about my emotional wellbeing.
"Any word from Dad?"
"He left early this morning. Business meeting."
Of course he did. Because what's a minor assassination attempt compared to quarterly profit margins?
"Did he say when he'd be back?"
"You know your father, mija. He doesn't share his schedule with anyone who can't help him make money."
There's something in her tone that makes me actually look up from my tea.
Maria's got nerves of steel and the poker face of a professional gambler, but right now she looks like she's sitting on information that's eating her alive.
"What aren't you telling me?"
She fidgets with the tea service, which is never a good sign. "There's talk in the kitchen. About last night."
"What kind of talk?"
"They're saying it was Warren. Your Warren. Or his father."
The teacup rattles against the saucer in my hands like my nervous system just had a small earthquake. "Warren's father?"
"Apparently he's not who he says he is. Some man your father knew a long time ago."
Jesus fucking Christ.
My psychotic ex-boyfriend's father tried to murder me because of some ancient grudge against daddy dearest. It's like a soap opera, but with actual bullets and significantly worse dialogue.
"Where's Owen?" I ask, because suddenly I need to know he's breathing and intact.
"Your father gave him a special assignment. You have Rodriguez today."
I glance toward my window, where Rodriguez is positioned like the world's most expensive lawn ornament. He's built like a military tank and has the personality of concrete, which makes for absolutely riveting conversation.
"Maria?"
"Yes, mija?"
"Do you ever get tired of this? The security, the watching, the constant fear that someone's going to try to kill you for shit you didn't even do?"
Her expression softens into something that looks like sympathy mixed with exhaustion.
"Every day. But being tired doesn't make it go away."
After she leaves, I try to focus on supply and demand curves, but the words keep swimming around like they're personally mocking me.
I need air. Real air, not this recycled mansion atmosphere that smells like money and barely contained violence.
I grab a Princeton sweatshirt and head downstairs, nodding at Rodriguez who immediately starts following me like a lost puppy with a gun.
"I'm just going to the backyard," I tell him.
"I'll maintain visual contact from here," he says in that robotic way that makes me wonder if security guards get their personalities surgically removed during training.
The backyard is massive—perfectly manicured grass stretching toward trees that mark the edge of our property. It's the kind of landscaping that screams "we have more money than God and we're not afraid to prove it with our lawn care budget."
I walk toward the middle of the grass, breathing air that doesn't taste like expensive furniture polish and anxiety attacks.
For exactly thirty seconds, I almost feel normal. Like maybe I'm just a regular college student taking a study break instead of a target with a trust fund.
That's when I see him.
Owen's standing about fifty yards away, near the tree line. At first I assume he's just patrolling, doing whatever mysterious security shit Dad assigned him to do.
Then I notice he's pointing his gun at something on the ground.
"What the hell…" I whisper.
My feet carry me forward even though my brain is screaming that I should turn around, go back to my room, pretend I didn't see anything. But I can't.
It's like watching a car accident in slow motion—horrible and fascinating and impossible to look away from.
As I get closer, I can see what Owen's aiming at.
There's a man on the ground. Beaten to shit.
Blood on his face, clothes torn like he went through a blender set on "destroy." He looks like he's been to hell and back, and someone forgot to pack his return ticket.
And he's begging.
"Please," the man gasps, his voice carrying across our perfect lawn. "I have kids. I have a family."
Owen's stance doesn't change. Professional. Controlled. Like he's at a fucking firing range instead of standing over a broken human being who's pleading for his life.
"You should have thought about that before you ordered a hit on my employer," Owen says, his voice calm as a lake at midnight.
The man tries to crawl backward, leaving a dark trail in the grass. "I'll disappear. You'll never see me again. I swear to God."
"I know I won't."
And that's when I realize what I'm about to witness.
This isn't interrogation. This isn't intimidation. This isn't some dramatic movie scene where the good guy spares the bad guy at the last second.
This is an execution.
I want to scream, to run, to do something. But I'm frozen like a deer in headlights, watching the man I've been falling for transform into something that belongs in my worst nightmares.
"Please…" the man whispers one more time, and that's when I see his face clearly.
Warren's father.
Before I can blink, before I can process what's happening, before I can convince my legs to move… Owen pulls the trigger.