Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Get a fucking grip, Kiara! You’re better than this.
Shaking off the designer fog, I make my way out of the best walk-in closet I’ve ever dared to set foot in before pausing at the door and glancing back, my gaze lingering on the stunning limited edition.
Letting out a sigh, I share my deepest, most soul-wrenching goodbye. And with that, I turn away and slip out of the room.
Despite needing to get out of here, I spend the next few hours discovering Nice and snapping enough pics for my blog. I moonlight as a travel blogger, and though it’s the fakest shit I’ve ever dared to post, my eager followers can’t seem to get enough. Over the past few years, I’ve gained half a million followers, each one of them desperate to know where my travels will take me.
I suppose it’s not entirely fake. I actually visit the places I blog about, giving recommendations for little cafés or secluded beaches I find along the way, but I more than exaggerate my trips. This three-hour stop in the South of France will be described as a two-week stay in the beautiful town of Nice. I might even allude to a summer fling during my stay. They’ll eat that shit right up.
Moonlighting as a travel influencer has been a godsend. It means I can travel freely across the globe without question. My neighbors don’t bat an eyelash when I leave at a moment’s notice. My posts bring in a nice chunk of spare change, and if I were to ever hang up my assassin’s blade, I’ll have a nice career to fall back on that will ensure I get to keep traveling the world.
After snagging a few pictures of local cafés and hidden gems, I make my way to the beach and snap a few photos of the shore. I get the shells in the sand, the full view of the coastline, and even a few selfies, before finally deciding it’s time to haul ass out of here.
Almost fourteen hours later, I’m completely wrecked as I drive into the underground parking of my apartment complex. I love France, which is why I’m always so quick to accept contracts over there, but it’s not until I’m actually boarding a flight that I remember just how far away it is. Totally worth it, though. Plus, the million-dollar check that’ll land in my account once I confirm completion of the job is the sweet red cherry on top.
Driving through the parking structure, I turn the corner and go down the ramp to the lower level, heading toward my designated space—304. As I turn the final corner, I come to a dead stop.
“What the actual fuck?”
The parking lot is filled with concrete pillars that support the complex, and between every pillar there are two spaces, separated by a single white line. My number, 304, is painted at the top of my space, and next to my space—surprise, surprise—is the parking space for apartment 305.
The only issue is that a sleek, blacked-out Audi RS7 is currently parked in the very center of the whole space, no regard for the white line that separates the two spaces, and the absolute rage that pounds through my veins is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
Is it irrational? Potentially. But there’s nothing more sacred than a woman’s parking space. You don’t fuck with that. Ever.
The overwhelming need to slash tires pounds through my veins, but instead, I drive deeper into the complex. Mrs. Macy in 410 doesn’t drive anymore, so she has a permanently vacant space, and I effortlessly back my black Urus into the space before grabbing my things.
Locking my car, I wander over to the Audi RS7 to investigate, all while my hand itches for the blade hidden in the side of my boot. It would be so easy. Just a quick flick of my wrist and these tires would be done for. But then it’ll take even longer for the asshole to be able to move the car, and I’ll be stuck in 410 for ages. Not that it really matters. 410 is a great space. It’s easy to get in and out of and closer to the internal elevator than any other spot. But it’s not my spot, and call me crazy, but I’ve become very attached to my spot.
I don’t have many things in life. I don’t get to keep friends. I don’t keep pets or even have family. But what I do have is my apartment, Spikezilla, and that parking space, and I’ll be damned if someone tries to take that from me.
Keep your cool, Kiara. It’s just a parking space.
I blow out a breath, trying to relax the insanity pulsing through my veins. I’ve never seen this car before, so it likely belongs to a visitor of someone in the building, and instead of having them park out on the street like everybody else, they were given access to the underground parking. They should be gone soon, and when they are, I’ll be right back down here, moving my car back into its designated space.