Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 44: The News

The TV drones on in the background as I randomly change the channel again. Now it’s some perky host extolling the virtues of a miracle kitchen gadget that can apparently dice, slice, and julienne your life into perfect order. If only it were that easy.

I grab my phone again, scrolling mindlessly through social media. Everyone else seems to have their lives together. Posts about promotions, engagements, vacations to exotic locales. And here I am, on day one of my forced vacation, contemplating the merits of competitive napping as a hobby.

I’ve spent so long defining myself by my career that I’ve forgotten who I am outside of it. Without the structure of work, without the constant demands on my time and energy, I’m a lost little lamb.

It’s a sobering thought. And more than a little terrifying.

I grab the remote again, flipping through channels with renewed determination.

My thumb hovers over the remote’s button, frozen in mid-air. The perky infomercial host vanishes, replaced by the stern face of a news anchor. My stomach drops as I recognize the backdrop behind her—my office building.

"Breaking news in the murder of Scott Bower, a prominent figure in anti-magic security..."

The remote slips from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor.

"Sources close to the investigation have revealed the name of one significant person of interest in this case—his fiancée, Nicole d’Armand."

My name. My face. Plastered across the screen for all to see.

It’s not really a surprise—but still, it’s a surprise.

The anchor’s voice drones on, detailing the grisly discovery of Scott’s body. Half of it’s wrong, of course. Even so, each word is a dagger, twisting in my gut. I close my eyes, trying to block it out, but the images flood my mind unbidden. Scott’s eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood everywhere. The smell. God, the smell.

"We have exclusive footage of an altercation involving Ms. d’Armand, which occurred earlier today."

My eyes snap open. No. No, no, no. They can’t have—

But they do. The grainy security footage fills the screen, showing me in the lobby, grappling with Scott’s CrossFit bunny lover. I watch in horror as my on-screen self throws the woman to the ground, my movements jerky and violent in the low-quality video.

A groan escapes my lips. Is that really me? That wild-eyed, disheveled woman looks nothing like the polished professional I’ve always prided myself on being. My hair’s a mess, my clothes rumpled. I look unhinged. Dangerous.

Guilty.

The footage cuts back to the anchor, her expression grave. "We spoke with several of Ms. d’Armand’s coworkers about the nature of her relationship with the victim."

The screen splits, showing a familiar face. Fuck. Why is her name escaping me? Marissa? I think it might be Marissa, her mousy features pinched with what looks like concern.

"Oh, we all knew their relationship was doomed," Marissa says, shaking her head sadly. "Nicole was always so... intense. And Scott, well, he was such a nice guy. Too nice, really. We worried he couldn’t handle her."

"Couldn’t handle me?" My inner shrew becomes my outer one as I shriek at the television. "He’s the one who—" But my protests die in my throat.

Who cares?

They’re spinning their own narrative.

They don’t give a shit about the truth.

The short and bitter fact is that they’ve never liked me. No matter what the truth is, in their eyes, Scott is the victim.

And he is the victim—of someone. But not me. I’m not the one who victimized him, damn it.

The interview shifts to Mike, my stomach churning at the sight of his smug face. "Nicole’s always had a problem with men," he says, his tone dripping with false sympathy. "She’s got a jealous streak a mile wide. Hot-tempered, you know? Always ready to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation."

"Asshole."

The world can’t hear my side of the story. They only see what the media shows them. And what they’re showing is damning.

The anchor reappears, her voice somber. "While no formal charges have been filed, sources close to the investigation say that Ms. d’Armand remains the primary person of interest. We’ll continue to follow this story as it develops."

The screen shifts to a commercial, some cheery jingle about laundry detergent. The contrast is so jarring, so absurd, that a hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. Here I am, watching my life implode on national television, and now I’m being sold on the merits of fresh-smelling sheets.

I fumble for the remote, my hands shaking so badly I can barely grip it. Finally, I manage to hit the power button, plunging the room into blessed silence.

For the first time since this nightmare began, I allow myself to really consider the possibility that I might not win this fight. That despite my innocence, despite the truth, I might actually go down for Scott’s murder. The thought sends a chill through me. It’s hard to breathe.

I can’t let that happen. I won’t. But right now, in this moment, I have no idea how to stop it.

I draw my knees up to my chest, resting my forehead against them. The world shrinks to this small, dark space between my body and the couch. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps, each one a struggle against the panic clawing at my throat.

"Breathe," I whisper to myself, the word barely audible over the pounding of my heart. "Just breathe."

My mind keeps racing, replaying the news segment over and over. My face plastered across screens nationwide. The security footage. Marissa’s pinched expression. Mike’s smug face.

God, I want to scream. To rage. To break something.

Instead, I curl tighter into myself, pressing my forehead harder against my knees until it hurts. The pain is grounding, taking me away from the chaos in my head.

"It’s going to be okay," I murmur, the words muffled against my legs. "Everything’s going to be okay."