You’re In So Much Trouble

You’re In So Much Trouble
Lola

The lab sat buried under the penthouse floors, cold and alive in equal measure—server hums, ozone, and the faint scent of burnt coffee clinging to the air. Screens covered every wall, casting blue light that crawled over metal and glass.
Jake was right where she expected him: hoodie half-zipped, hair a rumor, surrounded by empty mugs and a thousand-yard stare that said sleep was theoretical.
“You look like you’ve been awake for a week,” she said, setting her coffee beside one of his.

“Five days,” he replied without looking up. “Sleep’s for civilians.”

“Or happy people.”

“Can’t relate.”

He finally swiveled toward her. “You wanted Rinaldi. I went fishing.”

She leaned a hip against the desk, pulse kicking once. “I said low-key.”

“This is low-key,” he said. “I didn’t even use the scary servers.”

“Define scary.”

“The ones that talk back.”

She blew out a breath. “Okay. What did you find?”
Jake clicked something, and the central monitor bloomed with pale-blue grids.
At first it looked like static organized by a perfectionist. Then he zoomed in, layer after layer collapsing inward, until a single red pulse glowed at the center.
Not blinking. Breathing.
He pointed. “That’s him.”

“What do you mean that’s him? It’s a dot, Jake.”

“Yeah, but it’s a dot that doesn’t want to be seen. Every time I ping this node, it bounces me three countries over, wipes the trail, and loops my access logs. That’s not architecture; that’s a living countermeasure.”

“So it’s—what? Protected?”

“Protected, mirrored, spiteful. Classic rich-villain energy. And guess what one of the dead proxy addresses was tied to?”
She raised a brow.
“An old Academy server.”

Her fingers tightened around the mug.
For a second she could smell waxed marble and hear her father saying, You’ll meet Lucian Rinaldi. He’ll give you the tour himself.
Her voice came out thinner than she wanted. “I was nine. I remember shoes squeaking. His voice saying my name like it already belonged to him.”

Jake’s tone flattened into something close to concern. “You sure you want to keep digging? Whatever this is, it’s awake.”

It’s just data. It can’t see you.
Right?

The pulse flickered. Once. Twice. Then the entire grid rippled, slow as breath.
Jake’s hands froze on the keys. “Uh… that wasn’t me.”

“What do you mean, that wasn’t you?”

“It moved,” he said. “It’s rerouting—Jesus—it just bounced into our local net.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Tell it that.”

Across the bottom of the monitor, black text began to type itself.
HELLO, LOLA.

Silence thickened until even the fans seemed to hesitate.
Jake exhaled through his nose, voice perfectly deadpan. “Cool. He knows someone’s watching.”

Of course he does.
The monster always feels the flashlight before you see its eyes.

For a second, neither of them breathed.
The word on the screen pulsed once, slow and deliberate.
HELLO, LOLA.

Jake’s cursor blinked beneath it, a tiny stuttering heartbeat.
Lola set her mug down carefully, like any sudden movement might make it worse.
“Can we—turn it off?”

“Off?” Jake’s voice was thin. “You don’t turn that off. You hope it gets bored.”

The red pulse dimmed, then flared again, brighter. The lights in the lab hiccupped.
Ozone thickened. The air felt wrong.
“Jake.”

He was already typing, fast. “It’s trying to handshake with the internal net. That shouldn’t even be possible from this end.”

“Then unplug it.”

“I did. Three minutes ago.”

Her spine prickled. “So it’s doing this on its own.”
He didn’t answer.

It knows I’m here.
It knew before I did.

The screen froze, went black, then flashed one more line:
I REMEMBER YOU.

Lola’s throat tightened. The sound of marble. Perfume. Her father’s voice: You’ll meet Lucian Rinaldi.
“Kill the power,” she said.

Jake yanked the main switch. The monitors dropped to dark. The hum died. Only the generator’s pulse remained.
They stood in the quiet glow of backup lights, neither pretending the gooseflesh wasn’t real.
After a long beat, Jake exhaled. “Well. That was fun.”

Lola turned toward him, all adrenaline and calculation now. “Can you still trace the origin?”

“Only if I want to get traced back. Which, shocker, I don’t.”

“Fine,” she said. “Then we flip it. Let him trace me.”

Jake blinked. “Come again?”

“If he’s looking this hard, let’s give him what he wants. I’ll make it easy to find me.”

He stared, incredulous. “You’re volunteering to be the Wi-Fi signal in a horror movie.”

“Better me than one of you,” she said. “And if he’s already watching, pretending he’s not doesn’t change anything.”

Jake dragged a hand down his face. “You’ve officially lost it.”

“Maybe.” She moved to the counter. “But I’m not stupid. If he’s going to come for me, I want you to see it happen.”

His voice dropped low. “You’re talking bait, Lola.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Bait with an idea.”

Jake swore under his breath, wheeling his chair to another console. “Then we do this right. You’ll need the tracker upgraded—no seams, no tape, no obvious heat signature.”

She extended her wrist. “Make it invisible.”

He glared at her, already reaching for the kit. “You’re gonna make Enzo homicidal.”

She almost smiled. “He already is.”

The alcohol swipe was cold against her skin. The wafer he pressed down next was colder.
He sealed the synthetic patch over it, skin-toned, perfect.
“Tracker’s live,” he said. “New ID. Whisper channel direct to me. If anyone tampers, I get an alert.”

She tugged her sleeve back into place. “If it pings outside the building, you don’t tell Enzo until you have to. Promise me.”

He sighed. “Five minutes. Then I call him. No negotiating.”

“Deal.”

Jake leaned back, studying her face. “You’re really doing this.”

“Doing it,” she said, “or taking control of what’s already happening?”

He didn’t argue. He knew the answer.
She checked her reflection in the blank monitor; hair, eyes, composure.
Jake’s tone went dry again. “Mariana’s Trench is on standby. We’ll monitor everything. If it twitches, we start causing problems.”

She nodded, hand brushing the hidden patch under her sleeve. “You’re the best kind of paranoid.”

He lifted his coffee in mock salute. “Send me the three dots when you hit the lobby. I’ll start the watch.”

Lola hesitated at the door. “Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“If this works… and he bites… make sure Enzo knows I wasn’t running.”

Jake’s jaw ticked, but his voice stayed even. “He’ll know.”

She smiled once, faint and sharp. “Good.”

The door hissed shut behind her. The lab sank back into the hum.
Jake turned toward the black monitor, and the red pulse blinked back to life.
SEE YOU SOON.

She left Jake’s lab with the chill of his monitors still clinging to her skin. Upstairs, the hotel air felt too clean, too bright—like a lie you could smell.
She stopped by the suite first. Swapped gym clothes for soft grey sweats and a plain hoodie, hair twisted up, shoes tied tight. Clothes she wouldn’t mind losing. Clothes meant for running.
Her jacket still carried a ghost of Enzo’s cologne. That part she kept on purpose.
The upgraded tracker itched faintly beneath her skin—Jake’s handiwork sealed under a layer of glue, invisible, waiting.
A heartbeat hidden under a heartbeat.
By the time she hit the lobby, she looked casual enough to disappear. The elevator chimed, she stepped out, and Vegas heat swallowed her whole.
The air outside buzzed with sun and exhaust. She headed toward her shop, the unfinished front still papered over in brown glass and blue painter’s tape. That was her story for the day: check progress, grab lunch, come home.

The lie lasted half a block.
Two men waited near the door, all counterfeit ease and professional stillness. Phones out, posture loose, eyes wrong.
One rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers. The other’s reflection swept the street instead of his feed.
Lola smiled like she didn’t see them. Lifted her phone to her ear, keeping her voice bright and loud enough to float.
“—and I told her if she brings that knockoff bag around me again, I’m staging an intervention,” she said, light and airy, gossip as camouflage.
She crossed the street, weaving past a parked car, tone bubbling like nothing in the world was wrong.
“No, babe, listen—he proposed in a drive-thru. A drive-thru. What was I supposed to say? Pass the fries?”
Her tone was sugar. Her eyes were razors.
One of the men shifted his weight. The other murmured into his sleeve.

There you are.
Faster than I thought. But expected all the same.

At the corner, she caught her reflection in the dark glass of a storefront.
Loose shoulders. Lazy smile. Perfect prey.
She lowered the phone just enough to type one quick message with her thumb to Jake.

Give me time. If I’m not back in three weeks, make the move.
Send.

Screen dark.
She tucked the phone away, still half talking for the benefit of whoever was watching.
“Anyway,” she said to the dead line, “I’ll call you after yoga.”
The phone buzzed in her hand a second later.
Jake: They’re coming.

Her fingers flew, grin breaking before she could stop it.
That’s what she said.

She slipped the phone into her pocket, pulse steady and sharp.

You wanted a signal, Rinaldi.
Here’s your invitation.

The alley ahead narrowed to a single breath. Light broke into stripes across her shoes.
Behind her, a van door hissed open; soft, patient, inevitable.
Lola smiled once, at nothing in particular, picturing Enzo’s face when he found out she’d already made her move.

Then the world went dark.

\==========================D- - - -
Sooooo, that’s the end — for now.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Seriously. You have no idea how much it means that you stuck around for this wild, chaotic, occasionally unhinged story. The response so far has been absolutely insane, and I see every single comment. I know some things are still a little wonky — this is very much a work in progress, written in the quiet hours between diaper changes, snack negotiations, and the rare moments when my toddlers actually nap. (Mom brain is so real.)
I’ll keep tweaking and tightening what I can, but honestly? Some chaos just belongs to the story.
Book 2 is already in motion and I’m aiming for a December 1 release, but I’ll keep you posted in case life (or teething) throws curveballs.
Thank you again for reading, for commenting, for screaming with me in the best way. You’ve made this whole thing feel real, and I can’t say enough how grateful I am for that.

Until next time—
xoxo,
MK

And since you're still here.....

Enzo
He watched the feed like a man watching a metronome—Lola’s little heartbeat pulsing steady on the screen, EKG clean as a promise.
Good girl, he thought, half-smile without warmth.
The room was too quiet for feeling; it was a place for plans. He flexed his fingers against the glass until the skin went white.
When I get you back, wife, God help the world, you’re in so much trouble.

Trigger Warnings for Book Two:
Proceed with caution and maybe a snack.
Book 2 contains:
Torture (creative and occasionally satisfying)
Bad comebacks (mostly Lola’s)
A villain named Lucy who’s about to regret his life choices (hard)
One heroine who refuses to stop being an absolute menace

You’ve been warned.
You’re also welcome.

Accidentally Yours, Still
Book Two in the Accidentally Yours series

Chapter One
Lola

White, the smug kind.
Ceiling. Walls. Floor.
Too bright, too clean, too pleased with itself for passing inspection. Bleach in the vents, steel humming like it wants applause. Even the hum sounds arrogant like it expects gratitude for sterilizing the air.
A black chair holds her in the center straps neat, leather soft, buckles quiet. Considerate, which is its own kind of cruel. Across the room, a counter of stainless and shine: scalpels, clamps, tidy rows like a boutique for civilized harm.
The light eats color. Even her reflection in the metal looks gray. The cold radiates from the floor, creeping up her bare ankles until her toes curl on instinct.

Too clean. Too quiet. This is what guilt looks like when it can afford a decorator.

“I hate tidy,” she muttered. “The real monsters are always tidy. Control freaks with bleach and God complexes.”

Her tongue tasted metal and detergent. A memory rose, the wrong kind and she pressed it back down with a breath through her nose. Bleach and lies same brand, different bottle.

He was older. Not by much. Silver at the temples, a new line carved into a jaw that was always too proud, the same pale eyes that thought everything was a ledger. The suit bespoke, the posture worse: the room is mine, the air is mine, the outcome is already mine.
“Lola,” he said, that smooth museum-voice trying to curate reality. “At last.”

She smiled as if she’d found exactly what she ordered.
“Oh, sweet Lucy. There you are.”

A small catch in his chest. He ironed it flat. “Lucian.”

“Mmh. That’s what you told me last time.”

“You remember.”

“How many field trips come with a sales pitch?” She tilted her head. “Marble, perfume, shoes squeaking, a man saying my name like he’d already stamped it.”

He didn’t look at the mirror; he looked at her. “You were nine.”

“And you were what practicing being your father?” she said. “You did the tour well. You just didn’t have the authority yet.”
A beat. He accepted the hit and decided not to bleed.

“My father did the contracts,” he said mildly. “I run the house now.”

“Condolences on the promotion,” she said. “He pass you the key or just the habit?”

He circled once. Not a shark too self-aware for that. A docent. He kept his hands politely off the straps, as if not touching her were the same as restraint.
“Let’s be clear,” he said. “You were purchased. The Academy secured your placement, your education, your safety. You ran.”

“Correction,” she said, friendly as weather. “A man bought a child. Turns out, I don’t stay where I’m put.”

His eyes flicked over her like a scanner reading damaged property. “Fifteen years. Then you walk in.”

“I hate being hunted,” she said. “So I came to collect the hounds.”

“You think that’s what we are?”

“I think you’re wearing deodorant over rot,” she said. “Lucy, this place reeks of repentance.” Her eyes swept the corners. “You scrub the floors like guilt’s contagious.”

His mouth almost curved. It didn’t. “You belong to me.”

“Darling,” she said, “you never got that far.”

He stepped closer, the cologne was eucalyptus and money. “We are reclaiming an asset.”

“You hide behind procedure,” she said. “Dress cruelty up in policy, then invoice the cleanup.”
Her smile was small and mean. “Call it whatever you want, Lucy it still bleeds.”

He blinked once, slow.
There it is, that flicker when the ego feels air.

“You exaggerate,” he said, calm again. “The Academy refines talent. Gives lost potential direction.”

“It puts a leash on the gifted and calls it purpose.” She glanced at the tray. “Tell me, do you sort the scissors by morality?”

He let that pass. He was here to savor. “You’ll find cooperation earns comfort.”

“Define comfort. Pillows? Or just prettier chains?”

“You always did make ugliness sound clever.”

“That’s because you keep dressing harm in lab coats,” she said. “I’m just reading the label out loud.”

He placed a fingertip on the back of the chair—polite, possessive, certain. “You’re here to be unmade and reforged, Lola.”

“Then pray your fire’s hotter than mine,” she answered.

He stood in front of her, finally close enough to count his lashes. “We can do this the easy way.”

“Lucy,” she said softly, “you don’t have an easy way. You have two complicated ones and a press release.”
That earned it—a small flash in his eyes. The polish slipped. Something hungry blinked through and then remembered itself.

“You learned to talk,” he said.

“I learned to live,” she said. “Talking’s free.”

“You ran from salvation.”

“I ran from a man who called a leash salvation.”

“You think this is still about that day,” he said. “It’s about potential misused.”

“Misused,” she repeated, like tasting something too sweet. “That’s the word you use when a person refuses to be obedient.”

Silence settled and hummed, the vents sighing like nervous lungs.
He chose a new angle. “Tell me about Enzo Marchesi.”

A single beat of pulse under her skin. She let it pass. Don’t give him the song—give him the echo.
“What do you want to know?”

“Why he makes you louder.”

“Because he doesn’t confuse quiet with safety.” She tipped her chin. “Because he doesn’t need me small to love me.”

“So he’s your weakness.”

“No,” she said, tone easy but eyes sharp. “He’s the reason I don’t flinch anymore.”
A pause. “That’s what you never figured out, Lucy, love doesn’t soften me. It steadies the aim.”

That landed: a ripple under glass, but it landed. His nostrils flared, too quick to hide.

“You talk like this to everyone?” he asked.

“Yeah Lucy, pretty much,” she said.

He stepped closer again; the obsession showed now, thin as a wire under the skin. “I could take it all out,” he said softly. “The fear. The roots. The memory that keeps you from being useful.”

“You mean the spine?” she said. “That’s welded.”

“Useful,” he repeated. “To something more than your appetites.”

“Oh, we’re talking appetites,” she said brightly. “How brave.”

The jaw tightened. The polite smile returned. “We’ll begin with intake. Vitals, baselines, simple answers. Composure earns accommodation. Defiance earns … longer conversations.”

“You do love your euphemisms,” she said. “What’s the one for dog collar? ‘Leadership seminar’?”

“You’re reckless, Lola.”

“No,” she said. “I’m bored.”

“You don’t frighten me.”

“I’m not aiming for fright. I’m aiming for consequences.”

He looked over her shoulder at nothing and everything, the performance of a man in charge of a system, and when he looked back, he’d decided to be kind.
“You can still be saved.”

“By you?” she said. “Lucy, you can barely keep yourself from vibrating.”

He actually smiled. Quick. Crooked. Human and terrible. “I wondered if you’d notice.”

“I notice when men want something too much,” she said. “They start mistaking the room for consent.”

He absorbed it. He was very good at absorbing. He set a scalpel down with careful fingers, like not making noise was the same as not being dangerous.
“You’re going to work with us,” he said, final as a signature.

“You’re going to find synonyms for ‘no’ exhausting,” she said.

“Last chance to be sensible.”

“Sensible’s for people who don’t know the exits.”

“Do you?” he asked.

She glanced at the vents (new filters), the mirrored panel (not a wall), the false door to her right (a liar), the camera tucked into the corner (his favorite angle; it shaves the jaw). She didn’t gift him the map. She gifted him a smile.

“Enough,” he said.

“Of what?”

“Amateur theater.” He gestured toward the door with a hand that wanted to be a blade. “You’ll meet my team. Boundaries, expectations, tolerances.”

“Sounds like a book club,” she said. “Will there be snacks?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He’d rehearsed the next twenty minutes all week. He’d been waiting for her voice to fill the white room so he could cut it to size.
He turned for the door.

Lola tilted her head, studying him the way you look at an insect that thinks it invented crawling.
“You know what I always hated about your kind, Lucy?”

He didn’t take the bait, not out loud. A flick of the eyes, that’s all she needed.

“You polish everything,” she said. “The floors, the words, the stories. Even your guilt gets a wax coat.”
Her smile sharpened. “I was nine when I learned that people can sound rich while selling their kid. You were there. You shook my hand. I remember the gloves.”

That landed. Quick and clean.

Lucian’s composure stuttered for half a breath, something bitter flickered and vanished behind his eyes.
She leaned back against the straps, casual, like this was brunch.
“Tell me, Lucy. When you walk those same halls now, do they still smell like bleach and moral superiority?”

He inhaled once, slow, controlled, but it still came out wrong.

“Enjoy your nostalgia,” she said sweetly. “I’ll make sure you choke on it later.”

He paused at the door, hand white-knuckled on the handle.
“Don’t call me that again.”

“Sure thing, Lucy,” she said, smiling just enough to twist the knife.
“You’ll still hear it in your sleep.”

The door slammed.
Lola’s grin lingered, slow and feral.
“Aww,” she murmured to the empty room, “he thinks we’re done.”

Round one and I didn’t even stretch.