Page 22 of Noel
The muscles in his forearms flex as he works, and somehow, even in my terror, I notice.
Because of course I do.I’m being stalked by some creep, but apparently that hasn’t affected my libido any.
Noel opens the box carefully, peeling back the paper like he’s opening a wound.
I can only see inside when he tilts it.And when I do?I cringe.
Resting on white tissue paper, is a single dead rose.Blackened.Brittle.The petals curl inward like they’re trying to hide.
And beside it—another note.
He unfolds it slowly, eyes narrowing.
The words are messier this time, angrier.
You’re on my naughty list, Holly.I’m gonna have to punish you if you don’t learn to behave.
My breath catches.The room tilts.
I hear murmurs around me, people shifting, the uneasy buzz of staff trying to look busy but clearly terrified.
My body goes cold.
It’s one thing to get a creepy note—it’s another to have it delivered to a venue where I conduct business.
Noel’s jaw tightens, muscles ticking in his temple as he stares down at the paper.
He doesn’t raise his voice.He doesn’t need to.When he straightens, the entire room sharpens around him like a drawn blade.
“Lock the doors,” he says to one of his men.“Full sweep.No one in or out until I clear it.”
His tone is pure command—cool, lethal, steady—and his team moves instantly.It’s like watching a storm form in slow motion.
He looks back at me, and something in his eyes changes.The edge softens.
Just barely.
“Okay,” he says quietly, his voice now for me alone.“This is escalation.We’re not downplaying it anymore.”
Fear and embarrassment fight for space in my chest.
“Escalation,” I repeat weakly.“You make it sound like a military op.”
“It might as well be,” he growls, crumpling the note in his gloved fist.“And you’re the target.So yeah, we treat it like one.”
I can’t breathe.My legs feel wooden.
He’s already moving toward me, all that dangerous calm wrapped in controlled power, and when he reaches me, the tension in his voice cuts right through the panic in mine.
“Holly.”
My name sounds different from him now.Not a tease.Not a joke.
A promise.
“Come with me,” he says, voice firm but gentle, hand finding the small of my back as he steers me away from the open room.“We’re moving to Studio B.”
That touch—warm, grounding—makes something in me unravel.It shouldn’t.
