Page 137 of Torrid Love
Jenny, our receptionist-slash-intern, has been complaining about dropped calls for the past couple of days.
Strange.
I drop the phone in its cradle and resume my mission.
I grab a wrap from the refrigerator. I’m already salivating. I take a huge bite and chomp down.
“Hmmm.”
God, this is delicious.
I’m just about to take another bite when I hear the roar of the engine of a car, followed by the sound of screeching tires and then the explosion of glass shattering.
I jump in fright.
Footsteps crackle against glass.
What the hell is going on?
I drop my wrap and pat my body in search of my phone to call 911.
Crap.
I left it in the editing room and there’s no phone in the kitchen.
“Where are you, bitch? I know you’re in there, Dominika,” a voice I’ll never forget shouts.
This is not happening.
My heart is pumping so hard in my chest, it hurts.
Oh, my God.
I look around, but there’s nowhere to hide.
No back door to escape through.
No secret passage out of here.
I’m trapped.
As I frantically try to figure out how to save myself, the sound of the footsteps grows louder.
No, no, no.
Then I see him.
A face I was hoping to never see for the rest of my life.
I’m so terrified, I freeze on the spot.
“Gideon?!” I choke.
There he stands.
The guy who sexually assaulted me right after one of Rod’s biggest concerts, without an ounce of remorse, guilt or regret.
Memories of my attack assail me.
