"Something wicked this way comes" - William Shakespeare

  Veronica

  The morning sun streamed through the windows of the café, casting a warm glow on the exposed brick walls and the bustling crowd. It was a welcome change from the oppressive darkness of my loft last night. I sipped my latte, the rich, creamy flavor a small comfort. Across from me, Hayley, my best friend and stylist extraordinaire, was animatedly discussing the latest fashion trends, her hands gesturing expressively as she described a particularly outrageous outfit she'd seen at a recent gala.

  "…and darling, the feathers! They were everywhere! Like a flock of exotic birds had exploded on her dress," Hayley exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

  I managed a smile, but my mind was elsewhere. The image of Liam’s brother’s face, the fear that had gripped me in the dead of night, lingered like a shadow. I’d tried to push it away, to focus on the present, on the familiar comfort of Hayley’s company, but the unease persisted.

  "Earth to Veronica!" Hayley’s voice broke through my reverie. "You’ve been miles away. Everything okay?"

  "Just a bit tired," I lied, forcing a yawn. "Didn’t sleep well."

  Hayley’s brow furrowed with concern. "You’ve been working too hard. You need to take some time for yourself, girl. Maybe a spa day? I know a masseuse who works miracles."

  "That sounds tempting," I said, "but I have a busy week ahead."

  "Always the workaholic," Hayley teased, but her eyes held a hint of worry. "Seriously, Vee, you know you can tell me anything. Is there something you’re not telling me?"

  I hesitated, the urge to confide in Hayley, almost overwhelming. She was the one person I trusted completely, the one person who knew me, the real me, beneath the carefully constructed facade. But the fear of revealing my past, of reliving the trauma, held me back.

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  "It’s nothing," I said finally, forcing a lightness into my voice. "Just work stress."

  Hayley studied me for a moment, her perceptive gaze searching my face. Then, she sighed. "Alright," she said, "but if you change your mind, you know I’m here."

  "Thanks, Hay," I said, grateful for her understanding.

  We continued our brunch, the conversation flowing easily between us, a welcome distraction from my troubled thoughts. Hayley’s infectious energy and witty observations always had the power to lift my spirits, even if only for a little while. She talked about her latest projects, the celebrities she’d styled, the upcoming fashion shows. I listened, nodding and occasionally adding a comment, but the feeling of being watched, of being followed, still lingered. I kept glancing around the café, half-expecting to see Liam’s brother’s face in the crowd.

  As we finished our meal, Hayley reached across the table, her hand covering mine. "You know," she said, her voice softer now, "you’re one of the strongest women I know, Veronica. You’ve overcome so much. Whatever you’re going through, you’ll get through it. Just remember, you’re not alone."

  Her words were a comfort, a reminder of the resilience I’d cultivated over the years. But even as I smiled and thanked her, a part of me wondered if she was right. Was I truly strong? Or was I just a carefully constructed illusion, a fragile facade that was about to shatter? The thought of Liam's brothers' return, the unseen threat he represented, filled me with a chilling premonition. My carefully constructed world was about to be turned upside down. And I was afraid.

  I stepped out of the café, the warm sunlight a stark contrast to the chill that ran down my spine. The feeling of being watched intensified, a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. I glanced around, scanning the faces in the crowd, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Still, the feeling persisted, a nagging unease that clung to me like a second skin.

  I quickened my pace, my heart pounding in my chest. Every shadow, every alleyway, seemed to hold a potential threat. The city, once a source of comfort and anonymity, now felt like a labyrinth of hidden dangers. I reached my car, fumbling with the keys, my hands shaking. I unlocked the door, slid into the driver's seat, and locked the doors again, the click of the mechanism a small reassurance.

  The drive home was a blur of anxiety and hypervigilance. I kept checking the rearview mirror, convinced that someone was following me. Every car that pulled up behind me, every pedestrian that glanced my way, sent a jolt of fear through me. By the time I reached my loft, I was trembling, my nerves stretched to their breaking point.

  I unlocked the door, stepping into the cool, quiet space. The loft, usually a sanctuary, felt different now, tainted by the fear that clung to me. I went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water, and that’s when I saw them.

  A bouquet of red roses, vibrant and fragrant, sat on the kitchen counter, their thorny stems wrapped in elegant tissue paper. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. I hadn't ordered any flowers. No one had been here. How did they get there?

  A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I gripped the edge of the counter for support. The roses, a symbol of love and passion, felt like a mockery, a cruel reminder of the danger that lurked in the shadows. I reached for my phone, my fingers trembling as I dialed Saint's number.

  "Saint," I said, my voice barely a whisper when he answered. "I need your help"