POV Noelle
Two days of freedom, and I’m already making questionable life choices.
Standing in the middle of Northbrook Mall with a venti caramel macchiato and zero supervision feels like the most rebellious thing I’ve done since telling Dad I fucked the help. Which, considering my recent track record, is saying something.
No Owen. No Rodriguez. No random security guy lurking behind the Auntie Anne’s pretending to be interested in pretzels. Just me, my credit card, and the intoxicating possibility of making terrible decisions without professional intervention.
It’s fucking liberating.
“Can I help you find anything?” The Sephora girl looks like she was born with perfectly contoured cheekbones and the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly which shade of lipstick makes you irresistible.
“Yeah, I need something that says ‘I’m fine’ when I’m definitely not fine.”
She blinks. “Um, are you looking for foundation or—”
“Concealer. Industrial strength. The kind that hides emotional damage.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m armed with enough makeup to resurreface my entire face and the weird satisfaction that comes from spending money on things I don’t need. Retail therapy is bullshit, but bullshit that temporarily fills the Owen-shaped hole in my chest.
The food court beckons like a beacon of processed cheese and questionable life choices. I’m debating between Panda Express and that sketchy pizza place when my phone buzzes.
Jamie: “where r u”
Me: “mall. living my best unsupervised life”
Jamie: “that’s how horror movies start”
Me: “dramatic much?”
Jamie: “just saying. rich girl alone in public = bad things happen”
I roll my eyes and shove my phone back in my bag. Jamie watches too much true crime. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen? I get mugged? At least that would be exciting.
The irony of that thought hits me about thirty seconds later.
I’m walking toward the parking garage, arms full of shopping bags and head full of that weird empty feeling that comes after retail therapy wears off, when I notice the guy.
Tall, dark hair, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his face. Nothing inherently threatening about him, except he’s been behind me for the last three stores. Could be coincidence. Could be a really dedicated window shopper.
Could be something else entirely.
My dad’s paranoia must be genetic, because suddenly I’m hyperaware of everything. The way baseball cap guy keeps checking his phone. The black SUV idling near the exit. The fact that the parking garage is way too empty for a Saturday afternoon.
“Fuck,” I mutter, picking up my pace.
That’s when I see them. Two more guys, positioned near the elevators like they’re waiting for someone. All wearing the same nondescript dark clothing, all with that professional stillness that screams “not mall security.”
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
I spin around, looking for an exit that doesn’t involve walking past at least one potentially dangerous person, and realize I’m completely fucked. Baseball cap guy is closing the distance, elevator guys are moving, and the black SUV is now definitely not just idling.
My phone. I need my phone.
I’m fumbling in my bag, trying to call Dad or Jamie or literally anyone who might give a shit that I’m about to become a statistic, when someone grabs my arm.
“Miss Morris?”
I turn, and it’s a woman.
Relief floods through me. “Yes?”
“Your father sent me. There’s been an accident.”
The words hit like ice water. “What kind of accident?”
“Your bodyguard. Owen Tate. He’s been hurt. Your father asked me to bring you to the hospital immediately.”
My heart stops. “How badly hurt?”
“We need to go now.”
She’s already guiding me toward a different exit, away from baseball cap guy and his friends, and I’m following because Owen’s hurt and nothing else matters. Not the way her grip on my arm is a little too tight. Not the way she keeps checking over her shoulder. Not the fact that I’ve never seen her before in my life.
I’m halfway to her car before my brain catches up with reality.
“Wait,” I say, trying to pull away. “I should call my father first.”
“There’s no time.”
“Just let me—”
That’s when I feel the needle.
Sharp pinch in my neck, right below my ear. The world immediately starts going soft around the edges, like someone’s adjusting the contrast on reality.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” the woman says, and her voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “Wrong place, wrong time.”
I try to scream, but my vocal cords feel like they’re made of cotton. Try to run, but my legs have apparently forgotten how to function. The shopping bags fall from my hands, scattering makeup and overpriced clothes across the concrete.
Baseball cap guy appears beside us, helping support my suddenly uncooperative body.
“Clean pickup,” he says. “Boss will be pleased.”
“Just get her in the car before someone sees.”
The last thing I register before everything goes black is being dragged toward that black SUV, my feet barely touching the ground, and the bitter realization that Jamie was right.
This is exactly how horror movies start.