"I've achieved everything... still, it feels like something is missing."

Jennifer's Notebook

Jennifer

The music's loud, blasting from the car speakers. I hum along, just enough to feel it move through me. The windows are down, and the warm summer air rushes in. I have my hair tied up today; I don't feel it catch the breeze like it usually does when I wear it loose, the way I like it. Sunlight settles on my shirt, a thin black turtleneck. It's summer, but I never minded the heat.

I turn onto the dirt road the GPS indicated. Four black sedans are parked along the edge, guarding the way. I can't see inside them. I've already driven at least a kilometer, and still no sign of a house. No alternate road. Nothing. Just green fields stretching endlessly on either side, and the occasional lonely tree, an uneasy feeling creeping in my chest. Security is rarely stationed this far from a property.

Just as I begin to wonder if the GPS was wrong, a line of trees appears along the horizon and, before them, I see it.

I reach the entrance. No guards. No doorman. The gate opens on its own, and I turn off the music. As I wait for the metal fence to finish sliding aside, a flicker of movement catches my eye in the rearview mirror. I squint. There it is again. I take a few steadying breaths and stay alert. I grip the wheel a little tighter.

Once there's just enough space, I drive in. The gate closes behind me. The first thing I notice is that this place is nothing like opulent mansions I've delivered to before, those over-the-top displays of wealth, all staff and marble.

This one is simple. Almost prison-like. A gray structure, cold and minimalist. The only color comes from the vibrant green grass stretching between the house and the tall pine trees that surround the property like a living wall. No flowers. No bushes. What a shame.

I park the SUV in front of the main entrance. As I step out of the car, someone is already standing there. My loafers sink into the gravel with a muted crunch. I smooth the wrinkles in my pants from the long drive, letting the motion mask the moment I study him. Dark brown hair, slicked back. Gray suit, black shirt underneath. Light tan skin. Tall. Imposing. Smirking.

"Miss Jennifer Shay." I recognize the raspy, cheerful voice from our countless phone calls about the delivery. He's exactly how I imagined him: charming, easygoing, the kind of man who makes everyone feel at ease. But those black, unreadable eyes?

They don't fool me, but it's not my business. I just have to play nice and deliver the piece to the client. I let my eyes flick to the gate one last time before meeting his gaze.

"Yes. Mr. Novikov, right? Nice to finally meet you," I say, keeping my tone smooth and professional.

"Please, call me Rem. I feel like I already know you." Of course he does. He called a thousand times with a thousand pointless questions. A walking headache. I give him a small smile in response and gesture to the back seat, where the painting rests inside a wooden protective box.

"I'm happy to finally add his work to my collection," he says.

"I'm glad people are enjoying Nohr's art." I look at him, keeping my tone light.

He studies me for a second, then smiles.

"You must know who he is, though... right?"

I return the smile, dry.
"I signed a confidentiality contract. I'd like to keep my job, and he pays well. I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

It's not just about the contract. Under Nohr's alias, I remain anonymous. I can make art freely. The less they know, the safer I stay. Most of my clients are criminals, charming, dangerous, or both. So I do my work as an agent: represent, sell, deliver, disappear.

Just as I reach for the box, he steps too close and grabs it himself. My body stiffens at the sudden proximity.

"Let me," he says, flashing a well-practiced smile.

"Thank you," I say, matching it.

"This way." He leads me inside. Our footsteps echo on the marble floor.

The interior is as colorless as the outside. A vast gray living room. Two hallways stretch left and right, lined with identical doors. I call it a "living room" only because of the dark gray couch, the TV, and the small glass table. Everything else is void. No bookshelves. No photos. No paintings.

At the end of each hall, a spiral staircase climbs upward. He clearly has money; his tailored clothes and high-end furniture say as much. And the fact that he can afford one of Nohr's pieces.

"I was thinking of adding some color to this space. What do you think?" He pretends to think, then turns to me. "Where would you place it?"

I couldn't care less what he does with the piece now. He already paid for it. What I enjoy is making it, the process. But I just focus and observe the space. The wall behind the couch is the obvious choice. In this void, it'll stand out no matter where he hangs it.

"I think that wall could use the color," I say, pointing behind the couch.

He opens the box and reveals the painting: waves in shifting shades of turquoise, the white foam so vivid it seems to spill out of the frame.

"Beautiful."

"You mentioned the house was gray, so the artist used turquoise for contrast. Glad you're pleased."

"Honestly, I'd be happy with anything that adds life to this place," he says absently.

"Did you just move in? It seems so..." I glance around.

"Empty?"

"No, I meant colorless. Sorry if that was rude. It's just... different from the other clients' homes I've been in—no extravagance or staff."

"I've lived here for about six years. My housemate likes it this way."

He's about thirty, clearly wealthy... A housemate? It sounds... off.

"We never needed staff. They just snoop around." He continues, but his tone darkens slightly. Message received. No more questions. Too much money. No staff. It only means danger.

"Well, after so long in a monochrome home, I'm glad you've brought in some color," I offer.

Suddenly, the silence here is too sharp. Like the calm before something violent. He watches me for a beat, and I return a harmless smile.

"Yes. A good change. Do you have lunch plans? I'd love to invite you," he says, that wide smile perfectly in place.

Absolutely not.

"I can't. I have another meeting."

"What a shame. Such a short visit. I was hoping we'd get to know each other better."

He winks. Charming. Handsome. But not my type.

"Maybe another time." I glance at my watch. "I should be going."

As I turn toward the door, I notice him—

A tall, broad, and handsome man, leaning against the hallway wall. Dressed entirely in black. Silent. Intense. He doesn't move, doesn't speak. But he draws my attention like a gravitational pull. His presence sets off every alarm in my body.

Ink peeks from beneath his collar, curling up the side of his neck, and from his sleeves, where more tattoos creep down his forearms, disappearing into his hands, which rest casually in his pockets. Black hair, mid-length waves, tousled like he doesn't care. Skin pale as marble, like he's never seen sunlight. Sharp jaw. Broad frame. The kind of dangerous, magnetic presence that fills a space without trying.

When our eyes meet, it's like being caught in a storm. His gray eyes swirl with an emotion I can't place. His gaze holds me in place for a beat too long.

Do I know him? He seems oddly familiar. No. I'd remember someone like him.

I take a step toward the door, but he's suddenly there, in front of me.

"What are you doing here?" His voice is deep, smooth, and calm, but heavy. Those eyes... they hold something ancient, but my brain clicks back into motion. I need to leave. Now.

"I'm Jennifer Shay. I delivered a painting to Mr. Novikov. I was just leaving."I force my breathing to stay even.

"Jennifer Shay," he repeats, like he's testing the name on his tongue.

"Jennifer, this is Enzo Visconti. My friend and associate," Rem says, resting a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Nice to meet you." Polite. Respectful. No distress. I extend my hand.

He stares at it like I've just insulted his bloodline and doesn't take it. What the hell is his problem?

"Well, I should be going. I can't be late," I say.

Novikov opens the door. I walk out, both men behind me.

"I hope next time you'll agree to join me for dinner."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Novikov," I say, ignoring his comment.

I raise a hand for a parting shake, but he pulls me into a hug. I might hate him. When we part, I give a polite nod to the other, now frowning man. I walk to the SUV. The front gate begins to open. I open the door. Glance back... I can't leave like this, so I lean in to grab my purse from the passenger seat.

My fingers dig through it, searching blindly. Card. Pen. I write hastily. My heartbeat kicks up. There is a shift in the air like my body knows what's coming, even if my mind hasn't caught up yet.

I keep my face calm as I head back to them. Steady hands. Casual steps. They can't know I'm alert. Not yet.

Mr. Visconti is closer, so I hand the card to him, with a polite and professional smile. He hesitates a few seconds, then takes it. The moment he turns it over and reads the warning, his expression shifts. I don't wait. I spin on my heel and sprint back to the car.

I press the start button, close the windows, my pulse roaring in my ears. In the rearview mirror, I see him yelling at Novikov, then racing inside. Good. That bought me seconds. The gate's still opening. If I'm fast enough—

Three armed men appear up ahead and open fire. The rush hits all at once. My foot slams the gas. Bullets thud against the glass, punch into the metal body. I drive straight through one of them, feel the jolt beneath the wheels, then nothing. The other two dive aside. I don't stop. I don't look. If I do, I'm dead.

I veer off-road, straight into the woods. Branches whip the windshield. The car rattles with every jolt of uneven ground. My fingers lock around the wheel, white-knuckled, almost painful. Tension knots across my back and shoulders. I keep glancing at the mirror, once, twice, again. Waiting for headlights. For movement. For the worst. But no one appears behind.

I'll find a way out. I have to.

That was one hell of a delivery.

I drop the SUV off at Gus's workshop. He wasn't there, but he'll see the mess soon enough. Luckily, he doesn't ask questions, as always. I'm fine. That's what matters.

Now I'm home, curled up in bed with a glass of wine, ready to start a movie and pretend this day never happened. I swirl the glass, letting the aroma rise before taking a sip. The taste lingers. I press play, but the sound of the movie feels distant... my mind keeps drifting.

Will they escape in time? If I made it out, they would too... right? I warned them in the note about the cars on the road. I keep telling myself they made it. It's the only version that makes sense.

The doorbell pulls me from my thoughts. Weird. I'm not expecting anyone. That's the beauty of this neighborhood: no nosy neighbors, no friendly waves. Just peace.

I check the camera on my phone. I've seen enough to not be shocked easily, but four men on my porch? My doubts about their safety are answered, but not the way I expected. The doorbell rings again, louder, like it's trying to break through the door. They're not leaving. My pulse hammers in my ears. The muscles in my neck tighten. The air feels heavier, as if the house itself knows what's about to come in. A chill runs down my spine, familiar and unwelcome. I don't freeze. I draw a deep breath. Calm. Focus.

I move forward. Every step is calculated. I can't hesitate.