Page 5

I get home late.

The launch party for Fuego Lento’s Brazilian video premiere was chaos—lights flashing, camera crews shouting, fans pressing in.

The New York celebration tonight wasn’t any calmer.

Every time I moved, someone was filming me, shouting directions, touching up my makeup.

Chin up, shoulders back, eyes like you’re about to ruin someone’s life.

I’m still buzzing from the noise, the flashing bulbs, the claustrophobic press of too many bodies.

I just want a bath.

Pajamas. Silence.

Maybe ice cream.

My heels slip off the second I cross the threshold, landing in a lazy heap by the coat closet. I move on autopilot, reaching for the lights— and stop.

The air is wrong.

I can’t explain it.

It’s not cold.

Not loud.

But it feels off.

Like the air is holding its breath.

Like my apartment isn’t mine anymore.

I sniff. And I frown.

Is that? What is that?

I creep toward the bedroom, every hair on my body standing on end.

The moment I flip the light switch, my stomach lurches.

“Oh my God.”

My voice comes out barely audible. A whisper too scared to scream.

The room is a war zone.

Drawers ripped open, contents spilled and shredded like someone clawed through them.

My closet has been emptied, hangers clattering on the floor like brittle bones.

My vanity— an antique my mom and I thrifted and refurbished —is flipped and splintered, its mirror shattered across the carpet.

Perfume and powder and broken compacts bleed into the pile like a crime scene.

It stinks in here.

Something thick and sour and human.

I already know what I’m going to see before I turn to the bed.

But that doesn’t make it any easier.

There. In the center of the mattress, atop my white linen duvet, like some twisted offering— a pile of human excrement.

My legs go weak. My stomach claws up my throat.

I flee.

The hallway spins as I stagger to the guest bathroom, not even shutting the door before I slam to my knees and retch.

It’s violent. Hot. Acidic.

My throat burns. My eyes blur with tears.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t think.

I just want to wake up from this nightmare.

Still trembling, I reach for the sink, gripping the edge, trying to steady myself. But then something catches my eye in the mirror—just over my shoulder.

The kitchen.

The island.

Something’s there.

I freeze.

The room beyond looks untouched.

Spotless. As if none of the madness in my bedroom ever happened.

But on the counter— dead center, perfectly arranged like a sick joke —is a single red rose.

Wrapped in a satin ribbon. Balanced on a folded piece of creamy cardstock.

I know I didn’t put that there.

My building has secure access.

Doormen. Cameras.

A locked elevator that goes straight to my floor.

No one should have been able to get in here.

But someone did.

My breath shakes as I inch toward the island, the tile floor cold under my bare feet.

I don’t see any broken glass.

No open windows.

No sign of forced entry.

Just this mockery of a gift.

A rose.

And a note.

I reach for it with trembling fingers.

The envelope is thick. Expensive .

The handwriting across it is tight. Aggressive .

Just a few words.

For my Diablita.

My blood runs cold.

He’s been here before.

I know it.

This sick stranger has walked through my apartment, my personal space, like he owned it. Like he owned me.

As if I belong to him.

And now, I know one thing for certain.

This isn’t over. Whatever this is, he’s just begun.

Yes, the note is creepy.

No punctuation.

No signature.

And that nickname. Ugh.

My Dad used to call me his Little Devil , and somehow it leaked years ago.

Now that it’s in El Tigre’s lyrics, everyone is calling me Diablita .

It’s not the same as Dad’s pet name for me.

This is impersonal. Based on my looks, not out of love.

It’s kind of nasty, to be honest.

But still, I don’t want this freak to use it.

My hands go cold.

I’m not some paranoid socialite.

I’m used to being looked at.

Talked about. Gossiped over.

But this? This isn’t a fan letter.

This is a violation.

I shove the note and the rose into the trash like they’re radioactive, bile still burning the back of my throat.

I back away in shaky steps, my feet making soft sounds against the tile. The air feels thick again, clinging to my skin like oil.

My hands tremble, and I stare at the trash can like it might come alive, like the note might crawl its way back out.

For my Diablita.

I feel filthy. Violated.

Like he touched me without ever laying a hand on me.

Like he peeled back the skin of my life and left a mark where no one else could see.

Then it hits me.

What if he’s still here?

What if he’s watching me right now?

My heart slams into my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

I spin in a full circle, scanning the kitchen. The shadows feel deeper now. My pulse roars in my ears.

A creak in the hallway makes me jump so violently I nearly fall over.

I stare toward the darkened edge of the corridor, frozen, every muscle screaming move.

And finally— I do .

Adrenaline surges and I sprint for the bathroom.

I slam the door shut and twist the lock with shaking fingers, pressing my back to the cool wood as I gasp for breath.

There’s a mirror across from me, and in it, I see the truth.

I’m terrified.

Hair wild. Eyes huge. Shoulders trembling.

My dress is wrinkled and my mascara is smudged from the tears I didn’t even realize were falling.

I wrap my arms around myself.

I can still smell the stench of him in my bedroom— sweat and sickness and that pile on my bed.

The kind of smell that sticks to your skin, even if you weren’t touched.

Even if you were lucky this time.

Because that’s what this was, right? A warning.

He was in here.

He was in my home.

He walked across my floors, broke my things, defiled the place I sleep.

He touched my fucking bed.

I think I might scream.

I want to call the police. I should call the police. That’s the logical thing to do.

But I don’t.

I should call my dad. My uncles. Any of the Volkov men who’d show up armed and enraged.

But I don’t do that either.

Because there’s only one name in my head.

One person I want to come for me—not just to protect me, but to obliterate whoever did this.

To burn the world down if that’s what it takes to make me feel safe again.

Balor Cruz.

My fingers are already unlocking the phone, my thumb hovering for just a second over his contact— one I swore I wouldn’t use again, one I couldn’t bring myself to delete.

I hit call.

And hold my breath.

Because I hope with everything in me— once he hears my voice, once he knows what’s been done —that he’ll come for me.

I should care about how this looks. I should be worried about sounding desperate, about dialing the man who already made it clear he didn’t want me.

But none of that matters right now.

Because I’m scared. Because I’m alone.

Because someone broke into my home and defiled my space.

So I call him.

And with every ring, my chest gets tighter. My heart pounds like it’s trying to break free, and I don’t even realize I’ve stopped breathing until— click .

“Lucy?” His voice.

Balor picked up.

Thank God.

My knees almost buckle with relief. Just hearing him— rough, low, clipped —makes something inside me unravel.

It sounds like I woke him. Or maybe— God, maybe he was already up. Was he with someone? Does he hate me?

I shove the thoughts down.

Not now, Lucy. Later.

If there is a later.

“I—I’m sorry to call you,” I manage, hating the tremble in my voice.

“Something’s wrong,” he says.

There’s silence. Tense, focused.

Then.

“Where are you?”

“My apartment. I just got home. Someone’s—someone’s been in here. There’s damage. He, uh, he left things.”

I whisper. I can't bring myself to say what exactly he left. Not out loud.

Not the note.

Not the rose.

Not the goddamn shit on my bed.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

His voice is still low, but something sharp slices through it now.

A blade wrapped in silk.

“No. I mean, not physically. But he, he broke my vanity. There’s glass everywhere. And he—” I choke, swallowing bile, going for broke. “He left things. A note. It said, For my Diablita .”

The line crackles.

No sound.

Just the vibrating thrum of fury pressing through the receiver.

Then— movement .

Fast. Urgent.

“Where are you now?”

“Bathroom,” I whisper.

“Okay. Good. Stay right there. I’m on my way,” Balor says.

The edge in his tone is lethal.

I hear a door slam shut in the background, the jingle of keys, the shuffle of his boots over hardwood.

“Don’t leave that bathroom, Lucy. Don’t touch anything else,” he commands. “Don’t open the door for anyone if you hear a knock. Don’t even look out the peephole.”

“Balor—” I whisper, but I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.

That I’m scared?

That I need him?

That he’s the only one I trust to make this stop?

“Stay put, Angel,” he cuts in. “I’m eight minutes out.”

And then the line goes dead.

Just like that— he’s coming.

For me.

And I finally let myself sink to the cold tile floor, wrapping my arms around my knees.

The terror still swirls in my gut, but it's quieter now.

Like he took a piece of it with him the moment he answered.

Because he answered.

And he’s on his way.

To me.

I don’t have to pretend to be okay anymore.

Not when Balor Cruz is coming like a storm.