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.