Chapter 72 Eyes In The Room
Becca's POV
I held the edge of the paper with one hand and pressed the stapler down with the other.
The click didn’t sound right. Nothing had sounded right all morning.
The toolbox was open beside me, screws and bits scattered like my thoughts.
Behind me, the tool men were drilling into the far wall, their boots tracking dust everywhere. The shop smelled like wood, paint, and the kind of stress you inhale without meaning to.
I was trying to align the broken side frame of the shelf when Lola, my receptionist, peeped in, her eyebrows raised.
“Uh… Ma? You have a visitor.”
I didn’t even look up. “Tell them to give me a second. We’re kind of…”
“She said it was urgent. And… well… it’s Milla.”
That made my grip slip.
The screw rolled off the counter and clinked onto the floor, spiraling under a shelf.
Perfect.
I wiped my hands on my jeans and forced myself to breathe.
Milla. Of all days.
When I stepped out into the showroom, she was standing by the front desk, holding a bouquet of pale pink flowers like she had walked out of a commercial for soft heartbreak.
Her smile was tight, rehearsed. “Becca.”
“Milla… hi.”
I kept my voice polite but guarded.
She stepped forward and hugged me before I could stop her. Her perfume was too sweet, the kind that made you forget the bite beneath.
“I saw the news,” she said as she pulled back.
“Your building being wrecked," her eyes over “...and I have seen that for myself,”
“I was honestly worried about it, so I just had to come,” she muttered, handing over her consolation flowers to me.
Worried.
“Thanks,” I muttered, accepting the flowers because refusing them would make a scene. “I’m fine. Really.”
She looked around the place slowly, almost studying it. “Renovating already? Mark must be helping. He always jumps in when it’s you.”
Something in my chest tightened.
Her tone wasn’t casual; not even close.
“Milla, it’s really just shelf repairs. Nothing dramatic.”
She laughed softly. “I’m not accusing you of anything.”
Then she tilted her head, eyes narrowing just a fraction.
“You’re still with him… aren’t you?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement dipped in pity.
“Whatever I am with him is none of your concern,” I replied, keeping my tone steady.
She sighed and placed the flowers on the counter, leaning against it like she owned the place. “Look, I’m not here to fight. I just… I don’t want you experiencing what I did.”
I didn’t say anything.
I’d heard enough rumors about how their relationship ended, but Milla’s version had always been a little too… polished.
“I mean it, Becca.” She swallowed dramatically. “He broke me. I don’t want to see you go through the same.”
She blinked quickly and a tear slid down her cheek.
Here we go. Another emotional performance.
My internal voice whispered, “She is lying,”
And yet my upbringing shoved me into politeness.
“Do you want some tissue?” I asked.
She nodded shakily. “Please.”
I turned around, walked to the storage counter at the back, unlocked a drawer, and grabbed the tissues.
I kept telling myself: “Just be civil. Be nice. She’s upset… right?”
But something about the entire scene felt staged , like she had come here already knowing she would cry.
When I returned, she dabbed her eyes delicately.
“You’re a good soul, Becca. I’ve always known that,” she whispered.
“Thanks.” I forced a thin smile.
From the corner of my eye, I saw a suspicious movement.
Milla leaning slightly toward the decorative vase on the shelf beside her. Her fingers brushed something at the back of it.
I frowned.
Had she just…?
No.
I shook off the thought. Maybe I was imagining things.
Today had been stressful. I didn’t have the energy to read meaning into every little gesture.
Milla sniffed and straightened. “Anyway, I should leave you to work. I just… wanted to check on you.”
“Okay.”
She gave me one last long, unreadable look , almost as if she was waiting for something else to happen before heading to the door.
When she stepped outside, I let out a breath I didn’t know I had been holding.
Lola came from behind the counter, whispering, “She looked like she came for drama.”
“You have no idea,” I muttered, rubbing my forehead.
I barely had two minutes of peace before a familiar black SUV pulled into the lot.
My stomach flipped.
Mark.
He stepped out, jacket slung over one arm, sleeves rolled up, looking like trouble and relief at the same time.
I exhaled softly, thank God he didn’t come five minutes earlier. The last thing I needed was Mark and Milla in the same room.
“I see you're already engrossed in the renovation,” he smiled as he walked in, eyes scanning the scattered tools. “I thought you were supposed to rest today.”
“I needed to keep my mind busy.”
He gave a small nod, then glanced at the workers before walking deeper into the showroom.
I followed him, trying to pretend everything was normal.
“Anything new here?” he asked.
“No. Just repairs.”
I hoped my voice sounded steady.
He reached the shelf near the vase, paused, and leaned in closer. “Wait… what’s that?”
Before I could answer, he slid his fingers into the space behind the vase and pulled something out.
A tiny blinking light. A camera.
My blood froze.
“What the…?” I whispered.
His entire expression darkened in an instant. His jaw clenched so hard I heard his teeth grind.
“Becca,” he said quietly, “did someone come here today?”
My heart kicked against my ribs.
I swallowed.
This was the moment. Tell him the truth, or keep chaos out for one more day?
I chose the easier lie.
“No. No one.”
He stared at me, long enough for my skin to prickle. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.” My voice came out too fast.
He turned the camera in his hand, examining it with surgical calm. The vein at his temple pulsed.
Someone had planted this.
Someone who knew exactly what they wanted.
His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to me.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “If you say so.”
But I could tell he didn’t believe me.
Not fully.
He pocketed the camera and stepped back, scanning the entire room again like he suddenly expected more blinking lights hiding in plain sight.
Inside me, guilt and fear twisted together.
I replayed Milla’s movements , the way she brushed the vase, the way she distracted me with tears, the way she left too quickly.
Oh God.
This wasn’t a coincidence.
Mark walked to the center of the room, hands in his pockets, face unreadable. “Becca.”
“Yes?”
“If anything… or anyone… feels off, I need you to tell me. Immediately.”
My throat tightened.
“Okay,” I whispered.
But the truth sat heavy in my chest , I had already lied.
He didn’t push further. But he kept glancing around the room, quiet and sharp, as though realizing danger had slipped in right under his nose.