Page 25 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

“The one about The Void art exhibition,” I stated, agitation fuelling my interaction.

But he just sneered and brushed me off with a flick of his hand, telling me, “There’s no time, Elena. I have conference calls and meetings back-to-back today. That matter is closed.”

It was closed to him.

Not me.

I stayed in step with him, following him to his office as I protested, “But Mr. Gold, that wasn’t my article. It had my name on it, but...”

It was no use. He totally ignored me and slammed his door in my face, leaving me standing outside his office with anger and regret as my only company.

Begrudgingly, I went back to my desk, feeling defeated yet fired up, ready to stand up again, race across the office, burst through his door and scream my case, which in an ideal world, I would do, but this wasn’t a Netflix drama. I wanted to keep my job. So, I did what most of us do in a situation like this; I fired up my computer, banged the stationary about on my desk, and hissed under my breath to Dan, the guy who sat opposite me, that our boss was a narcissistic asshole.

He just nodded along without saying a word.

We all thought it.

No one said it.

But if you could read our minds...

The first thing I did once I logged on was click on my emails. When I saw one at the top of my inbox with the subject ‘Scam? Really?’ my stomach twisted into excruciating knots, and instantly, I felt sick. With an unsteady hand, I clicked on the email to see what it said. I knew it wouldn’t be good.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Scam? Really?

Congratulations, Ms. Belmont.

You just achieved something truly staggering. You managed to make it to the top of my shit list, and before today, I didn’t even know you existed.

After I’m finished with you, neither will anyone else...

P.S. I’ll let you into a little secret... that wasn’t fake blood. Nothing about me is fake. But you’ll find that out soon enough.

S.K.A.M.

(Can you guess what it stands for?)

I stared at my screen, the letters dancing around in front of my eyes as my heart jackhammered in my chest.

Should I forward this to H.R.?

Or the police?

He was threatening me.

He’d found my email, taken the time to approach me in this way, and said, after he’d finished, no one would know I existed.

What the actual fuck?

Over an article that I didn’t fucking write!

When I’d seen the front page of our newspaper, I’d felt numb and seething with anger all at once. Now, I felt like picking up my computer and flinging it at the wall.

Why me?