Trust No One

“She answered a phone call from her number.”

The sharp, invasive sound sliced through the quiet solitude of Laura Ulshafer’s writing room, a discordant shriek that yanked her from the lush meadows of her current manuscript. She’d ignore it. Inspiration was a fickle mistress, and interruptions were her enemy, especially now. For weeks, the words had refused to flow. She’d been staring at the same blinking cursor for hours, the blank page mocking her with its stark emptiness. Writer’s block had become a suffocating blanket, stifling her creativity and leaving her feeling hollow and unproductive.

Her writing room was her sanctuary, designed to encourage her creative spirit. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined two walls, their spines a rainbow of books on adventure and thought. A well-used leather armchair sat tucked in a corner, illuminated by the soft glow of a Tiffany lamp, perfect for losing herself in stories created by others. Sunlight poured through a large, arched window overlooking a lively garden filled with roses, lavender, lilacs, and honeysuckle, their sweet scent often drifting inside to inspire her. A calming shade of sage green covered the walls, which were decorated with framed prints of her favorite artists—Monet, Van Gogh, Degas, and O’Keeffe. A big mahogany desk took over the room, cluttered in an organized way: piles of research papers, notebooks with scribbled ideas, and a scattering of her favorite pens and pencils. The air always carried a faint smell of old paper and beeswax polish, warm and familiar.

Picking up the phone, she glanced at the caller ID, which froze her in place: it was her own number. A cold, unwelcome shiver ran down her spine. Like a phantom limb aching, an unsettling feeling settled in her stomach. This was... impossible. Who would make this kind of prank? She hesitated before answering.

“Hello?” she whispered, her voice audible.

Silence.

A voice, hers yet altered, responded. The voice, distorted and filled with static, carried an urgent tone that verged on panic. “Laura, listen. You’re in danger. There’s a stalker. Someone obsessed. They are near you, working for you, to help you. But they have a personal connection to you... jealousy, twisted and deep. They want to be you. They’re dangerous, Laura. they’ll try to possess you... to become you.”

Laura’s breath hitched. “What? Who is this?”

Her voice continued. “It’s me, a version of you that knows what’s coming. You need to be smart, Laura. Figure out who it is. It’s one of them. One of the five... Emily, your assistant, or Marcus, your PR guy. Brenda, your secretary. Jaxson, your bodyguard, or Eldon, your manager. Figure it out, Laura. And trust no one.”

The line went dead, leaving Laura clutching the phone, her heart pounding against her chest. a sanctuary, the room felt confining. She sensed unwanted attention. She found the absurdity almost humorous, were it not for the overwhelming terror.

The next day, she sat in meet her publisher, Lamar Harrison, and the five suspects from the phone call, each radiating a curated version of helpful attentiveness.

Her assistant, Emily, was bustling around, organizing documents. Emily was systematic and effective, managing schedules and answering calls. She had accompanied her for three years. Was she this obsessive? Laura believed her eagerness to please was excessive. Too eager?

Across the table, Marcus, the PR guru hired to promote Laura’s book tour, leaned back in his chair, radiating charisma. Confident and charming, he was a master of spin and the architect of Laura’s public image. He was a whirlwind of ideas, suggesting events and interviews. Maybe he seemed too eager, but Laura chalked it up to ambition. Did his creation captivate him so much that he wanted to live within it?

Brenda, the secretary, sat, taking notes. She was a quiet woman who managed Laura’s correspondence and appointments. She seemed harmless, almost invisible. Was it a mask? Could that calm exterior hide a raging inferno of envy?

Next to Brenda was Eldon, her manager, a sharp, quick-talking man who brokered deals and handled the complexities of the publishing world. A seasoned veteran of the literary scene, he radiated practical energy. He had been representing her since the start of her career and had guided her with a steady hand. Could his ambition have turned darker, craving her current spotlight? Could he betray her trust and endanger her for... for what? Control? Possession?

    Next to Laura sat Jaxson, her bodyguard. He was a solid wall of muscle and quiet observation, a sentinel carved from granite, hired after a minor incident at her last book signing. An eager fan had grabbed her arm, not violently, but with an unnerving possessiveness that had left Laura shaken. Jaxson was the solution, a silent, ever-present shield. He was always alert, always watching. Laura, a best-selling romance novelist, found herself constantly wrestling with the paradox of his presence. Was he protecting her, or watching her? The line blurred, a tantalizing enigma that fueled her creative mind. He was handsome—handsome enough to launch a thousand ships or, in Laura’s case, inspire a thousand plot twists. More than once, she had used him, or parts of him, to create the brooding, mysterious heroes of her stories. The way his eyes narrowed when he spotted a potential threat, the subtle flex of his jaw, the quiet intensity that radiated from him even when he was still—everything about Jaxson found its way into her pages, breathing life into characters like Lord Kaelen or Captain Thorne. And not that she would ever admit it, not to anyone, but when she was having writer’s block with an erotic scene in her books, all she had to do was imagine herself and Jaxson in whatever fantasy she was building. The dam would break, and she would create hot, steamy scenes that her readers devoured, praising her for her "unparalleled insight into the male psyche. Unaware the psychoanalysis stemmed from the nearby man, they considered it factual. The quiet strength, the unwavering focus, a hint of something mysterious, sexy—everything about Jaxson was a wellspring of inspiration. He shifted, his gaze sweeping the room like a predator surveying its territory. Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, his eyes locked onto hers. For a moment, the professional, detached concern in their depths seemed to flicker. Was his concern genuine? Instead: Perhaps merely the calculating gaze of a predator, judging weakness, not security. A shiver ran down Laura’s spine, not from fear, but from a potent mix of apprehension and illicit thrill. He held her gaze a beat too long—a silent challenge, a question mark hanging in the air between them. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the professional mask snapped back into place, his gaze shifting away as if nothing had happened.

The meeting dragged on, blending into a jumble of marketing tactics and logistical details, discussing the upcoming book tour, promotional plans, and security measures. Laura felt like she was playing a twisted game of Clue, with each innocent comment and each passing glance holding the key to a mystery. Laura watched them all, looking for a flicker of malice, a hint of something sinister hiding behind their crafted facades. Every smile, every gesture, seemed filled with hidden meaning.

The book tour started, and Laura was on edge, hyper-aware of every shadow and whispered conversation. A blur of airports, hotels, and book signings, she scrutinized every gesture and word, searching for the telltale signs of obsession. Jaxson was always present, a reassuring but also unsettling presence. Emily always expecting her every need, but each gesture felt invasive. Marcus’s effusive praise rang hollow, Brenda’s quiet efficiency seemed calculated, and Eldon’s constant phone calls felt more like surveillance than support.

She wrote her last autograph, her hand cramping, a forced smile carved on her face. As the taxi sped back to her hotel, Chicago lay beneath her in a sparkling mosaic of lights, each one a tiny, distant eye. Exhausted, she leaned back, relaxing, stealing a few moments of peace that felt both precious and stolen. A successful book signing event had left her drained, not just from the nonstop questions about her latest thriller, but also from the relentless pressure to perform and be the literary darling everyone expected.

Jaxson, whose quiet competence was as reassuring as his intimidating physique, escorted her to her room. He swiped the key card, pushed open the heavy door, and went inside first, his eyes scanning every corner. He moved like clockwork, checking the closet, behind curtains, under the bed.

“Everything’s clear,” he said, his voice a low rumble, but his gaze stayed on Laura. “Laura, do I need to be aware of something happening? You've seemed on edge these past few weeks.”

Laura gave a tired, dismissive wave of her hand. “No, Jaxson, just the book tour. It’s brutal, you know? All the travel, the interviews, the constant smiling. I just want to collapse.” She attempted to meet his direct gaze, but her eyes flickered away. “Everything’s alright.”

He didn't look convinced, with a slight furrow in his brow, but he gave a brief nod. “Alright, then. Get some rest. I’ll be next door if you need anything.”

"Thank you and good night, Jaxson."

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Laura moved, her exhaustion forgotten. She didn't just lock the door; she slid the deadbolt with a loud thud and fiddled with the chain lock until it was in place. Relief partially eased her tension. She leaned against the cool wood, her eyes scanning the luxurious suite, seeing not comfort but potential vulnerabilities.

She kicked off her heels, and the plush carpet was a welcome relief. Briefly, Laura shed her author and public image, confronting private fears of a stalker. The quiet room, previously soothing, felt suffocating; her heart pounded. A restless energy thrummed beneath her skin; it wasn't just tiredness. A terrible feeling crept over her that, despite the locked doors and Jaxson's watchfulness, whoever was after her was lurking in the shadows. She removed her heels again, and the plush carpet offered comfort. A hot shower, a silk nightgown, and a glass of crisp white wine helped Laura settle into the king-sized bed. Outside, the city hummed a lullaby, and exhaustion pulled her under.

She had just fallen into a peaceful sleep when it happened.

A hand, cold and clammy, covered her mouth, silencing her scream. Panic overwhelmed her senses, icy tendrils clutching her heart. Someone was in her room, in her bed, invading the fragile sanctuary she had created.

Dragged from her bed, the silk of her nightgown offered no resistance. She struggled, her legs flailing, but they were too strong. She was being pulled, her bare feet scraping against the carpet.

Towards the bathroom.

Moonlight, fractured, drifted into the small space, illuminating a distorted, familiar face; desperation, and something darker, twisted it.

"You? ... It’s you?” she whispered, the words catching in her throat.