11. Raven

Chapter 11

Raven

M y fingers danced across the pages of the script, eyes scanning the dialogue I'd soon breathe life into. The home office, my sanctuary from the chaos of fame, was silent save for the occasional turn of a page or the soft whisper of lines I tested under my breath. I leaned back in my chair, pondering the motivation behind my character's next move.

"Lines don't read themselves, but you sure make it look easy," a deep voice rumbled from the doorway.

Startled, I looked up with a mixture of irritation and relief coloring my expression. Jerome stood there, leaning against the frame with an ease that belied his imposing figure. He was a wall of a man—over six feet of muscle honed through discipline and service, wrapped in the casual authority of someone who faced far more than Hollywood dramatics.

"Jerome, ever heard of knocking?" My voice held a teasing edge.

"Wouldn't want to disrupt your process." His lips twitched with a hint of a smile, not quite reaching his stern eyes. "Just checking in."

"Always the protector, huh?"

"Someone has to keep an eye out. Especially with the premiere coming up. You're about to be in the limelight again."

"True. And it's comforting to know you're here." I marked my place in the script and set it aside. "I've got enough on my mind learning these lines without worrying about what's lurking in the shadows."

"Leave the shadows to me," he said, stepping fully into the room.

"Always so serious. You ever gonna relax?"

"Relaxing doesn't keep you safe."

"Good answer."

"Back to work then," Jerome said. "I'll be here if you need me."

"Wouldn't have it any other way." I picked up the script once more.

Jerome assumed his post by the door, eyes never straying from me. He was like a silent sentinel, exuding a sense of security that permeated the room. With every subtle shift of his frame, there was purpose—each breath he took seemed measured, as if in sync with the cadence of my heart.

The sudden shrill of the phone pierced the tranquility of the office, causing my hand to jerk toward the sound. I casted a fleeting glance at him, seeking an unspoken reassurance before I fingers reached for the receiver. There was a brief moment where I considered not answering, the weight of recent events pressing heavily upon my resolve.

"Stay alert. You don't know who's on the other end."

My thumb hovered over the answer button, the digital ring seemingly louder with each passing second. I drew in a deep breath, steeling myself with the knowledge that no matter what awaited me, Jerome was there. With a hesitance that contradicted my usual decisiveness, I finally pressed down, bringing the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

Jerome's stance tightened, ready to spring into action should the need arise. My heart raced, waiting for a reply that would either allay or confirm my fears.

"Hello?" I repeated, a hard edge creeping into my tone. My eyes flicked to Jerome, who remained silent but vigilant. The line crackled with static, and for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of my own breath, quick and shallow.

"Who is this?" I demanded, fingers tightening around the phone. "What do you want?" The silence lingered, stretching out like a tightrope that threatened to snap under the weight of my pounding heart. "Talk to me!" My voice rose, an involuntary display of the anxiety that clawed at my insides.

Then, a whisper sliced through the silence, cold and deliberate. "I'm watching you."

"How? Why?"

Jerome's eyes locked onto mine, a silent signal not to reveal too much, to keep the caller talking—a game of cat and mouse where every word could be a clue or a trap.

The caller's voice was almost amused, as if reveling in a private joke at my expense. "That cherry blossom blouse suits you—such a delicate pattern for such a determined woman."

My breath hitched. I glanced down at my blouse, the fabric suddenly feeling like a traitor against my skin. How could they know? My office had become a stage with an unseen audience.

"Your concern should not be with who, but with how closely I can see you," the caller said, their tone dropping to a sinister whisper. "The lace... your underwear, it's quite becoming, isn't it? Black lace—the choice of a woman who is both strong and sensual."

A gasp escaped me, a sound drowned by the blood roaring in my ears. Vulnerability stripped me bare, leaving me exposed in a way no script ever could. My hands trembled, and I clutched the phone tighter, as if it were a lifeline rather than the very thing that tethered me to this nightmare.

"Keep them talking, Raven." Jerome's voice cut through my panic, low and steady. He had moved without me noticing, now only steps away from me, his gaze never straying from my face. "Don't hang up."

"Jerome..." I whispered, finding a measure of solace in his proximity.

"Ask them what they want," Jerome instructed calmly, his hand signaling for me to stay engaged. There was a plan behind those intense eyes, a strategy forming even as the danger loomed closer.

Every instinct screamed at me to disconnect, to sever the vile link between me and the caller. But Jerome was right; we needed information. Swallowing down the bile of fear, I spoke again, each word laced with forced composure. "There must be a reason for all this… what is your end game?"

"End game?" The caller mused, dragging out the moment with cruel leisure. "I want you to remember this feeling, Raven. Remember it when you're alone, remember it when you think you're safe. You're never alone, not anymore."

"Stay calm," Jerome murmured, close enough for his warmth to brush against my cold dread. "We'll get through this."

His assurance was a lifeline, a reminder that I was not facing this horror alone. With Jerome by my side, I dared to believe we might just survive the twisted game I had been unwillingly cast into.

Why me? In the whirlwind of my thoughts, I tried to discern a motive, a reason someone would watch me so intimately, invading the sanctuary I had built from years of sweat and sacrifice. Was it random or meticulously planned? Was I just a pawn in someone's sick game?

"Raven, ask them where they are." Jerome's command pulled me back from the edge of hysteria.

"Where are you?" My voice betrayed none of the chaos inside me; it was a skill honed on countless stages and sets.

"Close enough," the caller replied, a smirk audible in the tone.

Jerome nodded, the ghost of a smile acknowledging my courage.

The uncertainty gnawed at me, each second stretching into an eternity. I was a woman who thrived on control, yet now control was slipping through my fingers like sand.

"Are you enjoying this?"

"Immensely."

"Alright, we've almost got them," Jerome whispered, his hand reaching out to squeeze my shoulder. The touch was brief but filled with promise—the promise of safety, of action.

"Almost" wasn't enough for me, but it was something. A sliver of hope to cling to as I faced the unknown with nothing but my wits and the man who'd sworn to protect me.

"Is this some kind of game to you?" My question was deliberate, baiting the caller. Every word was a step on a tightrope, every sentence a gamble.

"Life is a game, sweetheart," the caller retorted, and the use of ‘sweetheart' felt like a violation, an intimate term twisted into something grotesque.

Jerome ended his call with a finality that echoed in the quiet room. He met my gaze once more, and this time there was an unspoken message in the depths of his intense eyes: help was on the way. With a few more silent strides, he was back at my side, his presence a comforting fortress.

"Fine, we'll play," I responded to the caller, every syllable laced with feigned interest. Inside, I was anything but interested —I was terrified, angry, and above all, resolute that I would not be broken by this twisted caller's games.

"Good girl," the voice cooed, and I felt Jerome's hand tense on my shoulder—a reflex of protection, a silent promise that he was there, no matter how dark the game became.

"Are you having fun yet?" I pressed on, throat dry, thoughts spiraling.

"Definitely," the caller replied, tone dripping with sadistic pleasure. "It's not every day you get to play with someone as... renowned as Raven Fields."

The way they said my name—it was personal, intimate even. This wasn't some random stalker; this felt targeted. My eyes darted to Jerome, his jaw set, his eyes scanning the room as if he could somehow spot the danger through sheer will.

"Tell me what you want."

"Patience," came the chilling response. "All in good time."

Jerome's hand was a steady presence on my back now, grounding me.

"Let's make a deal," I offered, my internal plea for safety clashing with the boldness of my words. Please, just slip up. Give me something to use against you.

"Deals? How mundane," the caller scoffed. "But go ahead, entertain me."

"Stop watching me. Leave me alone, and I won't pursue this any further." My heart hammered against my ribcage, every beat a drum of impending doom.

"Empty promises from a desperate woman," the caller sneered. "I expected more from you, Raven."

And then silence.

"Hello?" My voice broke the sudden quiet, a stark contrast to the controlled tones I'd managed before. A crackle from the other end was the only answer, an electronic whisper, before the line went dead.

"Damn it!" I slammed the phone down, frustration and fear etching lines across my brow. Jerome's hand tightened momentarily before he pulled away, reaching for his own phone with swift precision.

"Signal's lost," he stated, the failure evident in the slight downturn of his lips. "They knew exactly when to cut off."

"Who is doing this, Jerome?" My question hung heavy in the air between us.

"We'll find out," Jerome promised, though his voice lacked its usual conviction.

The abrasive buzz of a dead line. The echo of threats lingering like a ghost in the room.