Page 25 of Black Castle

“Please, d-don’t call me, okay?” His voice cracks, fear woven into every word. “Don’t call at all. I’ll—I’ll call you, alright?”

Fear slides down her spine, ice-cold and unrelenting. She doesn’t understand what is happening, and the sheer panic in his voice terrifies her. Lucan is afraid, not for himself, but for her.

Why? What is he afraid of? What or who is going to hurt her?

To his plea, she nods anyway, and one of the soldiers, the one behind the wheel, comes forward and pulls her into the car. The door slams shut, locking her in.

The engine comes to life immediately, tires screeching as they pull out of the parking lot.

Through the tinted window, Vivienne watches. Lucan is on his knees now, the soldier gripping him tightly. His mouth moves, but his words are muted due to the distance between them. And he looks like a man being torn apart from the inside.

Vivienne’s heart keeps pounding. Not for once did her gaze break away from them. She watches until the images blur. And even long after he is out of her sight, his sound of agony still echoes in her ears.

What exactly is happening?

And why is he so afraid, desperate to get her out of sight as if danger is coming, as if the danger will aim for her and her alone?

Chapter Eight

Vivienne

Dear Ian Griswyk,

We’re pleased to inform you that you have been offered the position of a Game Developer at Quantum Pixel Entertainment. After reviewing your skills, experience and passion for game development, we are confident that you will be a valuable addition to our team…”

Vivienne’s eyes skim the email displayed on her phone over and over again, her fingers trembling as her free hand pulls a blue sweater over her head with one hand.

The email landed in her inbox over thirty minutes ago. And somehow, she is still struggling to process it. It is too good to be true. Quantum Pixel Entertainment is the number one leading game company. It feels like a scam even though their name, logo, and production manager’s signature is attached to the email.

Weeks have passed since she last saw Ian. A month and some days since she stood outside his door, knocking, pleading, but met silence instead. She can’t go ahead and confess her lies to the school board. Can’t unspin the web she has woven. But if she can fix it, if she can give him something better than the job he lost, maybe he will forgive her.

Ian Griswyk isn’t just a mathematician. He knows how to code and design games. He has tried designing a game a few times, but it didn’t work out due to lack of access to the right resources. Teaching mathematics at Daxton High was never really his dream. It was a last resort after rejection upon rejections.

Vivienne believes she has a magic touch. That if she submits applications on his behalf, luck will follow. And she did…multiple times. But unfortunately, it never does. But she still has access to his portfolios and email.

After the incident happened, Kenji has been helping her send application letters. But each rejection always weighs heavier than the last. Every time a rejection email arrives, she winces. And she wonders if Ian even bothers to check his inbox at all, if he is receiving the emails. But he hasn’t blocked her access. Either he isn’t checking his emails, or he still cares about her.

This morning, after the email arrived, she has called maybe a hundred times, sent texts but no reply. This is a big opportunity that he doesn’t realize. His life is about to change, a dream he gave up on is now within reach.

She desperately needs to tell him. And she is going to see him today no matter what.

Done dressing up, she plugs on her headphones—still no music, the sound of her door slamming shut as she exits her room.

It’s nearly 10 am. The house is as quiet as a graveyard. She should be at school now, studying. She just doesn’t feel like it today. Sleep has been a stranger to her lately. Nightmares upon nightmares. They are getting worse, getting bold. She was hoping she could try sleeping again when the email came in.

Locking the front door, she tosses the key under the flowerpot by the living room window, sprinting down the steps, the chilly morning air combing through her hair and biting into her skin.

Her sneakers pound against the asphalt as she races down the street. Ian lives in the next town. And the bus leaves in ten minutes.

She has to catch it.

About thirty minutes later, she is walking up the driveway of Ian’s apartment, the blue front door looming ahead, mocking her.

There was a time when the sight of that door filled her with warmth. When stepping onto his porch meant slipping into his arms, his laughter rumbling against her ear.

But now the door is a reminder of the pain she has caused, a relationship she has ruined with her own hands.

Taking a steadying breath, she climbs gently up the steps, the floorboard whining beneath the weight of her feet as she walks across the porch.

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