Page 81 of Babies for the Big Shot
She pauses. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” I say, trying to keep my voice low even though I want to shout. “I just… I keep seeing this woman. I think she might be following me. Or maybe I’m losing it. I don’t know.”
“Sara…”
“I’m probably being dramatic, right?” I ask, but I don’t even believe myself. “It’s just… I saw her outside the office. Beige coat. Sunglasses. Could’ve sworn it was?—”
“Okay, babe, I really have to go. Someone just dropped a tray of shrimp cocktails and the CEO’s allergic. But we’ll go for breakfast in the morning, okay? Talk it through. Lock the door. Breathe. We’ll figure it out.”
Click.
Just like that, she’s gone.
I’m still here, jittery, sweating, eyes fixed down the street as if waiting for something to jump out at me.
I hate this. I hate being that girl in a horror movie who hears a noise and walks toward it, even though every instinct screams to run.
Because this time?
This time I really do feel like someone’s watching.
By the time I reach my apartment, I’m so worked up I fumble my keys twice before I get the door open. Meatball barks from the couch, welcoming me to my own anxiety spiral.
“Same, buddy,” I mumble, dropping my bag by the door.
He trots over with his ears back as if he knows something’s off.
Or maybe he’s just hoping I brought snacks.
I scratch behind his ears and try to remember how to breathe normally. Slow. In and out. No big deal.
Except it is a big deal.
Because that look Rebecca gave me at the gala wasn’t just jealousy. It was something worse. Something calculating. Andthose texts? The green dress. The “you think he’s different with you?”
That wasn’t someone messing around.
That was personal.
I head straight for the kitchen and pull out a container of leftover pasta I know I won’t eat. I microwave it anyway. Something about going through the motions helps. Keeps my hands busy. Keeps my brain from short-circuiting.
My phone buzzes once on the counter and I flinch.
It’s Laura.
Just a meme. A duck in a sombrero. Text says “me trying to stay positive during my villain origin story.”
I snort. Then immediately feel guilty for laughing.
Because this doesn’t feel funny anymore.
This is real. Something sharp around the edges. I keep telling myself it’s just my brain playing connect the dots with coincidences, but the more I ignore it, the louder it gets.
I reheat the pasta. I try to eat it. I fail.
Then I sit on the couch with Meatball in my lap, my emotional support bowling ball, and stare at the wall.
I keep my phone face down. I keep the lights on. I check the locks on the windows twice.
