Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
The night air is ice. My breath clouds. I’m already regretting this.
My phone buzzes again. Mask.
Good. Now turn left. Keep walking. Don’t stop until I say. And River?
Don’t go back home tonight.
I stare at the message as I step into the alley behind my building. My hands are shaking. My brain is screaming that this is insane. That I just listened to a stranger on the dark web.
But my feet keep moving.
Because I believe him.
And I have no idea what that says about me.
Yet.
I don’t know where else to go.
After climbing down the fire escape and walking five blocks in the dark with nothing but paranoia and my overactive imagination for company, I end up texting the one person I know won’t ask too many questions.
Me: u up?
Tasha: yeah, want me to put on tea or tequila?
She meets me at the door in sweats and a pineapple-print sleep shirt, one slipper hanging halfway off her foot. Her hair’s up in a messy bun that somehow still looks intentional. I walk inside, and the scent of sandalwood and popcorn wraps around me like a blanket.
“You okay?” she asks, squinting as I slide off my hoodie and plop down on her couch.
“Define okay,” I mutter.
She hands me a mug—tea, not tequila—and flops beside me, legs tucked under her like a cat. “Is it the trolls again?”
I nod, then take a long sip, grateful for the warmth. “They’re getting bolder. Someone tried my neighbor’s door. I think mine was next.”
Tasha’s smile vanishes. “River.”
“I’m fine.” It’s automatic. A reflex. A lie that tastes sour.
She doesn’t push. That’s the thing about Tasha—she knows when to pry and when to back off. I tell myself that’s why I came here. Not because being alone tonight felt like wearing a target.
“I’ll file it with Legal first thing,” she says, voice low like we’re conspiring. “It’s not just you—we’ve had Cathedral-related harassment spilling into the company forums. Moderators are flagging it. And… Mason’s name keeps popping up.”
Mason. Heat crawls up my neck. My fingers tighten around the mug until the ceramic clicks against my ring.
“I don’t want to talk about him,” I manage.
But my brain does anyway.
Mason Reid used to be my gravity. He’s smart, charming, the kind of coworker who remembered your favorite bug-fix snack and looked good holding a whiteboard marker. We didn’t date long, just enough for me to mistake proximity for destiny. Then NovaPlay started greenlighting my pitches. My prototypes got slotted into the build. My name landed on the dev diary, not his.
He didn’t handle it.
Meetings turned sharp. Jokes that once felt flirtatious started feeling like paper cuts. He’d “clarify” my ideas to the room, louder, until they sounded like his. When the game director picked my combat loop over his, he congratulated me with a smile that never reached his eyes and a whisper I still can’t scrub from my skull: Don’t let it go to your head.
The breakup was a slow-motion crash everyone in the office watched. Slack threads went quiet when we passed by. People traded looks in stand-up. HR suggested “professional distance,” as if distance exists when you share a codebase and a build calendar. I learned the hard way: never date someone you have to see at 9 a.m. on a sprint review. It’s my new rule, framed and backlit.
Mason got transferred to a different department, which was good and bad. Good, because, I didn’t have to see him on the daily, bad because he was not happy. Now, I rehearse answers before I speak in meetings. I feel his old criticisms in my bones—the ones that taught me to shrink, to apologize for taking up space on a project I helped build.
“I’ll send you the incident numbers,” she adds, softer now. “You’re not alone in this.”
I nod like that’s enough, like a reference number can patch the hairline fractures he left behind. I blow on my tea even though it’s already cold, and I tell myself—again—that I will not let Mason Reid be the author of my self doubt.
“Thank you,” I try to smile but it’s forced.
She nudges my knee with hers. “Want to talk about Gage?”
I nearly choke on my tea. “What?”
Tasha grins like she’s been waiting to ask. “Come on. You two flirt like it’s your job. If unresolved sexual tension could generate electricity, NovaPlay wouldn’t need a server budget.”
“We don’t flirt.”
“Mm-hmm. And I don’t hoard gummy bears in my nightstand.”
“You definitely do.”
She points at me. “Deflection noted.”
I sigh and lean back, staring at the ceiling. “He’s obnoxious. Cocky. Drinks the last cup of coffee just to spite me.”
“And hot,” Tasha adds. “Don’t forget hot. I’d climb that man like a fire escape.”
My spine stiffens. It’s immediate. Annoying. Unexpected.
“Gross,” I mutter, even though it’s not. Not even a little.
Tasha side-eyes me. “What? I’m serious. If you’re not interested, I might shoot my shot. I mean, that jawline alone deserves its own Instagram.”