Fragmented Fate: Book 1

Delilah

“I AM AS GOOD AS ANY videographer you have in the field! You told me so yourself! Stop discriminating against me because of my age!”

I don’t normally start my day shouting, but the pile of bills glaring at me from my desk leaves me with no other option. I barely managed to pay my rent this month, but there are still the water and electricity bills along with the essentials I need to avoid starvation. I need this gig, no matter the cost.

“Del. . .” A deep sigh from the other end of the line cuts through my frustration. I know he has had enough of me but I can say the same about him.

“Don’t ‘Del’ me, Alan! I have bills piling up! Don’t make me remind you of all the favours you owe me!” I wouldn’t normally resort to that, but desperate times call for desperate measures. “Remember that time I saved your ass when you got involved with those drugs and—”

“Alright, alright! Please don’t remind me. That chapter of my life is behind me.” His groan is loud, followed by the sound of shuffling papers. Finally, he relents. “Come into the office. I’ll see what I can get you.”

Yes!

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

━━━━

I arrive even earlier than that, with a backpack and camera in hand. The small office is bustling with activity, a stark contrast to the quiet I usually find it in. Then again, I typically show up after dark, so it makes sense. I’m not an employee here but my old pal Alan occasionally hooks me up with gigs. Being the youngest in the room, without a degree or formal experience (aside from the photos and videos I create on my own), it’s challenging to be taken seriously. Not to mention that I’m only nineteen, while most people here are in their mid-twenties or thirties.

It’s not my fault I’m this young. I have the skills needed to be a full-time employee, whether here or at a similar company. Sure, I should probably take some courses, but for now, I need to make money to survive.

My dream is to become a cinematographer, but first, I need to build a solid portfolio. I want to prove to my father that I’m choosing the right path so he will pay for my education. He’s willing to cover the full cost of any university I choose—under one condition: I have to study medicine. There was no way in hell I would agree to that, so he kicked me out, calling me ungrateful and spoiled.

Eventually, he changed his mind, saying he’d still pay for my education, but I had to prove to him that I was making the right choice. So here I am, living alone in a studio apartment Alan found for me, trying to make ends meet. At least he let me keep my car.

Despite my father’s fiery temper, he gives in pretty easily. I just need to make it through the summer, and by fall, I’m sure he’ll be standing outside my door, begging me to come back.

“Hey, hey, hey! Your favourite pal is here!” I say excitedly as I spot Alan in the crowd.

“Go to my desk,” he says flatly, engrossed in some wedding photos. “And don’t touch anything!”

I quickly withdraw my hand from the cameras nearby, sulking as I plop down in a chair next to his desk. I watch him instead, my gaze shifting from the glow of the computer screens to his face, illuminated by the light. His stubble fails to hide the sharpness of his jawline, and his blue eyes dart around, avoiding me as he focuses on his work. His tousled fawn hair falls over his forehead in long strands.

He’s a few years older than me and, without a doubt, the hottest man I’ve ever seen. In reality, he’s a good friend, but in my mind, he’s someone I’ve been crushing on for the past two years. It’s pointless to confess my feelings though; he’ll never see me that way. To him, I’m just like an annoying little sister—his words, not mine.

Diverting my attention from him, I inspect his desk. There are some files, which I know better than to touch, and a small notebook lying open, revealing a note that catches my eye.

𝘚𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘺.

The pack? Is it some type of an incognito name a celebrity is using? And what kind of ceremony is it? I guess it’s a wedding since Alan specialises in wedding shootings.

. . .𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘺. . .$1000/𝘩𝘳

I nearly gasp, barely managing to cover my mouth with my palm. Who is the lucky bastard Alan is sending? What if it’s me? No way that could happen.

I glance at Alan, who is still absorbed in his work. He’s leaving New York today for business and will probably not be back in a week or two. That’s probably why he wants to send someone else instead of going himself. I mean, look at the pay. Why wouldn’t he want it for himself?

This is so wrong, but my curiosity is getting the better of me. I lean in and quickly grab the notebook, shoving it into my bag. I scan the office to see if anyone has noticed, but everyone is too busy with their tasks. As I rise from my chair, Alan shoots me a suspicious glance. I mouth “toilet” to him, and he nods towards the stairs.

Once I’m safely ensconced in the restroom, I pull out the notebook, my heart racing. “The pack. . .” I murmur to myself, flipping through the pages in search of a name or an address.

Aha! A number!

I feel a twinge of guilt for doing this to Alan, but the bills still piled up in my studio apartment urge me to seize this opportunity.

I dial the number, my heart pounding as it rings once, then twice, then, “Hello? Who is this?”

A rich, deep voice comes through the line. For a moment, I’m taken aback by how attractive the voice sounds. I clear my throat, trying to steady myself. “Uh, hi. I’m calling from Starlight Productions.”

The line is dead for a while and I start to suspect if he hung up on me. “Oh,” the man replies. “Did. . . did Alan give you this number?”

“That’s correct! Alan did. If you know him as well as I do, you know how forgetful he can be. He didn’t provide me with the address for the ceremony, so I’m calling to ask.”

There’s a brief silence that makes my heart race, and I fear my scheme has been uncovered. But then I hear a light chuckle, followed by the sound of a tongue clicking against the roof of a mouth. “That’s Alan alright. I’ll send you the address. Is the number you’re calling from okay?”

“Yes!” I nearly squeal, unable to contain my excitement. “This number is perfect!”

“You sound quite enthusiastic,” he remarks, amusement evident in his voice.

Of course, I’ll be excited. I’m about to make bank from this gig, and my father will be grovelling to take me back once he finds out. “I just love my job, sir.”

“I’m glad. It’s my cousin’s ceremony, you see. Everything needs to be perfect.”

“Just wait and see, sir. I’m about to ruin every other videographer for you.”

The enigmatic man laughs, and I can’t help but grin at my reflection in the mirror. His voice is soothing, sounding like it could lull me to sleep every night.

“You better hurry if you want to make it to the ceremony,” he says.

His words puncture my bubble of happiness. “What do you mean?”

“It’s tonight. Didn’t Alan tell you that?”

Huh? “H-he did! I just had to make sure I had all the equipment.”

There’s a pause and for some reason, I’m worried that he might be disappointed. I need this. I can’t come off as incompetent. “Hello?”

He clears his throat as if he just remembered I’m still on the line. “He’s already prepared all the equipment. You just have to show up.”

Oh. “Of course. I apologize, sir. I’ll be there as soon as—”

“What’s your name?”

My name. Should I give him my real name? They’ll probably check my ID when I arrive. “Delilah,” I say. “Delilah Davison.”

“Delilah,” he repeats, and for some reason, it feels as if he’s right there in front of me when he says my name. Before I can respond, he hangs up.

Returning the notebook to Alan’s desk is easier than I thought; everyone is too engrossed in their work to notice me making my way to the elevator afterwards.

“Where are you going?”

I freeze at Alan’s all-too-familiar voice. Of course, he would notice. “Uh, home? You’re taking too long.”

He narrows his eyes and rushes over to check that everything on his desk is in place. He picks up the notebook and slides it into the back pocket of his dark jeans. “Tell me the truth. What did you discover?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I deadpan. “I just realized I have better things to do than sit and wait for you.”

“Why you little— Then why waste my time? You know my flight leaves in an hour.”

Then why is he still here? I want to roll my eyes but smile as I step into the elevator. “I just wanted to see your pretty face before you leave for your business trip.”

I catch the chorus of “oohs” as the elevator doors close, Alan’s annoyed scowl being the last image I see. He’ll probably make me pay for this later, but if I end up getting paid, I’ll treat him to something nice.

My phone dings and I nearly drop it over how fast I pull it up. The man kept his word.

𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦.

Huh? What on earth is that supposed to mean? There’s no way this is a cult. . . Is it?

I look up the address. It’s about three hours outside of Brooklyn where I live, situated in a meadow I didn’t even know existed.

Halfway there, doubts start to creep in. What will Alan do when he finds out? Will he never speak to me again because of this? No way—it can’t be that serious. I’ll just videograph the ceremony and leave as quickly as I can.

I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?