21. Raven

Chapter 21

Raven

J erome left to go talk to the police department about everything and had Knox come and stay with me in his absence. He didn't want just anyone coming into the house. According to Jerome, it needed to be someone he knew personally and trusted.

So while he was downstairs and doing routine checks on me, I wanted to call and catch up with my mom.

Come on, Mom. Pick up.

"Hey, baby. I was just about to start cooking dinner, but I've got time. I saw the announcement of your new role. Are you excited?"

The silence that followed felt like a vacuum, sucking out the air from my lungs. Yet it wasn't the absence of sound that shocked me—it was the violent shattering of peace as gunfire erupted just beyond the sanctuary of my window. The sharp, staccato bursts were incongruent with the elegant drapery and soft hues of my boudoir, and for a moment, I froze, my heart slamming against my ribs with such ferocity it drowned out the continued ringtone.

"Jerome..." I gasped. Fear sharpened my senses, each pop and crackle of gunfire amplifying the dread rising within me.

I clutched the phone tighter, knuckles whitening, aware that the walls of my home might not be enough to keep the danger at bay. My world, once a landscape of red carpets and adulation, had morphed into a battlefield where shadows loomed and every corner whispered of unseen foes. My success, my independence—none of it mattered if I couldn't survive the night.

"Raven? Raven, darling, what's that noise?" My mother's voice quivered through the line, a stark contrast to the staccato rhythm of gunfire that punctuated the night air.

"Mom, I..." My voice faltered as I pressed myself against the plush carpet, seeking invisibility in its fibers. My home—a fortress built on years of sweat and ambition—now felt as fragile as glass under the weight of my fear.

"Are you okay? Tell me you're safe!" Panic edged into my mother's words, wrapping around my throat like a vise.

"Mom, there's someone outside—gunfire," I whispered, my normally assertive tone reduced to a tremble by the chaos erupting just yards away. My own heartbeat thudded in my ears, a frantic drumbeat syncing with my mother's rising alarm.

"Gunfire? Baby, you need to hide, now!" The command was sharp, a throwback to the protective maternal instincts that had once guided me through childhood scrapes and bruises.

"I am, I'm hiding," I assured, though the truth was I was still exposed, still too visible. "I'll be okay, I just—"

"Please, Raven, do whatever you have to. Just stay safe. I can't lose you," my mother pleaded, and I could almost feel the tight grip of my mother's hand from thousands of miles away.

The bond we shared—a lifeline spun from unwavering love and understanding—was the one constant in my life that fame hadn't altered. It was stronger than fear, more enduring than any threat that dared to shatter the silence of my solitude.

"Promise me, Raven."

"I promise, Mom." The words were barely audible, a mantra of survival as I gathered the shards of my resolve.

"Love you," my mother whispered, as if those words could form a shield against the storm of violence brewing outside.

"Love you more," I replied, clinging to the warmth in those three words, a beacon of hope as I prepared to face the unknown terrors lurking in the shadows.

More gunshots went off.

"Can't hear you, baby! Are you safe? Who are they?"

The questions tumbled through the receiver in a torrent of worry, but my attention fragmented as I tried to make sense of the cacophony that encroached upon my sanctuary. The shouting grew louder, more insistent, and with it, my pulse hammered against my temples—a relentless reminder of the peril just beyond my reach.

"Mom, I have to go," I managed to say, my voice a hoarse whisper betraying the terror that gripped me.

"Raven, don't hang up! Tell me—"

The rising tide of panic within me crested as another burst of gunfire erupted, closer this time, its staccato rhythm a death knell to any lingering hope of a misunderstanding. This was real; the danger was closing in.

"Sorry, I need to..." I couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't find the words to soothe my mother's fears or her own.

Without another word, I ended the call, severing the lifeline to my mother, the one person who had always been my anchor. As the phone slipped from my trembling fingers, I wrapped my arms around myself, an instinctual attempt to hold together the fragments of my fraying resolve.

They're here, inside the house.

My heart pounded with such ferocity that I could scarcely breathe, each beat a deafening echo in my ears. In those frantic seconds, the stark realization dawned upon me—I was alone, vulnerable, and my next move could mean the difference between life and death.

I bolted upright, breaths sharp and erratic. The walls of my opulent bedroom, once a sanctuary, now felt like the bars of a cage. I couldn't stay here—couldn't be a sitting duck, waiting for the danger to crash through my door.

Where?

My gaze fell upon the expansive en suite bathroom, but I dismissed it instantly; too obvious. My closet was equally unsuitable, filled with echoes of vulnerability, no matter how deep I could bury myself in silk and leather.

"Think, Raven, think!" My own voice barely registered over the clamor of my heartbeat, thrumming in my ears like a relentless drum.

Panic clutched at my chest as I darted towards the walk-in closet. My breath came in ragged gasps, each one a silent testament to my terror. I'd always taken pride in the spaciousness of the closet, a personal sanctuary lined with meticulously organized apparel and accessories reflecting my success. Now, it promised a sliver of hope for concealment.

Heartsick with dread, I shoved aside hangers draped with silk blouses and designer dresses, burrowing into the false safety behind us. Purses—relics of my red-carpet appearances—tumbled down around me, creating a makeshift barricade. I wriggled further back, cocooning myself under cashmere and snakeskin.

Please don't let them find me. I pressed my hand against my mouth to stifle my breathing. Every sound was magnified in the confined space, each creak and murmur from the house below, underscored by the pounding of my heart.

Then came the heavy footsteps—the thunderous approach of danger personified. I froze, eyes squeezing shut as if by denying sight I could ward off the reality of my vulnerability. The intruders' presence was like a physical weight, pressing down on me through the floorboards.

The footsteps grew louder, closer—a merciless rhythm that marched in time with the escalating fear that knotted my stomach. Somewhere within the cavernous rooms beneath me, voices rose—a garbled mess of shouts and orders that held no meaning other than an impending threat.

Jerome, where are you ? The question clawed up my throat, but I swallowed it back. He wasn't here; I was alone. Alone with the suffocating darkness and the ominous echo of boots on tile, each step an omen of what might come next.

Survive. Just survive.

The march of boots on wooden stairs sets a cadence to my rising panic. I bury myself deeper under the luxurious garments that once brought me joy but now offer a meager shield against the unknown. The rhythmic thuds grow louder, reverberating through the walls and floor, closing in on me like a tightening noose.

"Upstairs," I heard a gruff voice command from below.

Please, not here. Not like this.

My breaths come in shallow gasps, my hands trembling as they clutch a silk blouse to my chest. The fabric does little to absorb the sound of my pounding heartbeat, which threatens to betray my hiding spot.

Footsteps fan out across the second floor, the intruders methodically searching each room. The dread coils tighter within me, squeezing the hope from my chest with every passing second.

Then, without warning, the bedroom door crashed open, and the world seems to pause on its axis. My sanctuary violated, I held my breath, prepared for the worst.