Page 40 of The Secretary Volume II

Buzz.

Another text.

Change of plans.You’re needed in the office.Your driver will arrive in ten minutes.

My pulse kicks up as I stare at the screen.

The words don’t make sense.

The first message told me to rest.This one demands the opposite.

I swallow hard.My mouth has suddenly gone dry.They’re toying with me.There’s no other explanation.Maybe testing how quickly I’ll obey.Maybe seeing if I’ll push back.

Another buzz.Another pulse of dread.

Meeting Reminder – Shergar Offices.You’re late.

I sit up too fast, and nausea slams into me like a freight train.I grip the couch, trying to steady myself.You’re late?No.That’s impossible.They just told me?—

I blink hard.Something isn’t adding up.

Maybe I lost time.Maybe I blacked out again.Maybe this isn’t backtracking—maybe I’ve been sitting here longer than I realized.

I force myself upright, moving to the closet.The clothes feel wrong—too tight, too heavy.Everything feels off, like I’m wearing someone else’s life.

My eyes meet my reflection again.

It’s clearer now.But I don’t know if that’s a good thing.

Another notification.

Your driver has arrived.

I steady myself against the doorframe, taking a breath before I step out.Ellis’s plans hang in the air, thick and suffocating.

I leave the apartment and climb into the waiting car, avoiding the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

The city moves past in jagged flashes, like a bad dream I can’t escape.Like something’s been stripped from it, leaving only the worst parts behind.

My vision is supposed to be clearer now.But the world?It feels like it’s breaking into pieces I’ll never put back together.

And somewhere, in the back of my mind, the words linger.

Last night was perfect.

The thought settles cold in my chest.

I press my palm against the car door, feeling the vibrations of the engine against my skin.

Then, for the first time, I notice something.

The bruise on my wrist.

It’s faint, but there.A thumbprint.A grip too tight.I touch it lightly, and my breath catches.A memory tries to surface—fingers on my skin, a voice too low to make out.I shake my head, pushing it away.

Then—another flash.A different hand.My own.Holding a pen.Scratching out those words.

Don’t trust them.Don’t trust him.Don’t forget.