You were a famous author, you told your mother you could live on your own without her bitching. Of course she didn’t let you off easily but you grabbed your luggage and moved into your Nana’s manor where you promised to come back and you did, after years.

You were given your microphone by your assistant, Marietta. She was a good friend and an assistant. You nodded and went out on the stage. After catching everyone’s attention, the murmurs faded to silence. Dozens of eyeballs bore into you, creating a flush all the way to your cheeks. It makes your skin crawl, but you love your readers and power through it.

At a bar, one of your friends sexted Greyson, a guy you don’t really like even with his looks and appearance— he was horrible in bed and his attitude said it more then anything.

While Greyson was making moves on you there was a pounding at your front door, it didn’t sound too nice. The sound was so sudden and so violent Greyson stopped. After you checked the door with another banging there was no one. You quickly head back inside and Greyson was still trying so you kicked him out but he left a huge hole in the wall saying. “Since I’m not getting yours, thought I’d create my own hole to get into tonight, fix that bitch.” After putting his clothes on he stormed out.

You went to the window and checked, you could feel someone watching you, tracking you, watching every move. You just hope the mysterious person is still out there, ‘let the asshole get murdered wearing a single sock’ you mumbled. After a week Greyson was found dead with a rose next to it. It was on your porch with the initials. Z.M