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As I look up at the blood-soaked blade he’s waving in my direction, a rage like I’ve never felt before consumes me. He’s clearly losing his strength now, allowing me to reach up and yank the knife free. On autopilot, I turn the weapon back on him in a flurry of stab wounds, puncturing his torso until he collapses on top of me again.
Warm wetness drenches me as my attacker groans in pain just before his heavy breathing turns to rattles and gurgles next to my ear. I have a front row seat as he gasps for air a half dozen times just before a final long hiss escapes before he passes out.
After our loud struggle, the silence that follows is deafening. It’s hard to catch my breath as I take stock of my injuries. Lying crushed under his weight, the sound of a honking taxi down on Fifth Avenue below breaks through my shock.
I have to get out of here. Who knows how long he’ll be unconscious?
Getting free is not easy. It takes me several long breaths to find the energy to wiggle myself out from under the asshole, trying not to cut myself further on the broken vase shards surrounding us.
When I finally crawl free, I press down on my shoulder to stem my blood loss as I glance back at my attacker. Only when I see that his unstabbed eye is open and lifeless does it dawn on me what really happened here tonight. Moments ago, I was sure death was in my future, and I guess I was right.
I say a small prayer of thanks that it was his death and not my own.
A new hum rings in my ears. Grateful it didn’t happen earlier, I feel a true panic attack coming on. I crawl, doing my best not to kneel on the shards. Through my unshed tears, I feel around until I find my dropped phone.
Blood from my injured hand smears the front as I unlock my cell. I dial 911, but just before I hit the green call button, I pause. In that split second, I catch a glimpse of the future headlines.
Rowan Worthington raped at The Whitney. They won’t care that I stopped him before he succeeded.
Social media influencer kills stalker.
Rowan Worthington arrested for murder.
My panic makes each headline worse than the one before.
My father is going to be furious. He’ll say he told me about it not being safe for me to stay in the city on my own. He’ll blame The Whitney’s security for failing to keep me safe.
I’m spiraling. Spots are appearing in my vision. I’m close to hyperventilating. I need to call for help.
My fingers tremble as I search for Katja’s contact info in my phone. It’s her hotel, and she’s closer than the police. As the phone rings, it dawns on me that I’m calling her in the middle of the night.
“Rowan?”
Tears I didn’t know I was holding back flood my eyes at the sound of my friend’s voice.
“Katja… I…” I can’t get the words out around the lump in my throat as a sob finally escapes.
“What’s wrong?” the owner of The Whitney prompts, panic rising in her voice to match my own.
“Attacker…” I finally get out a single word that sums it up.
“You’ve been attacked?” When I can’t answer her, she adds, “Where are you?”
I hear her calling out to Dex, her boyfriend.
“My suite,” I finally get out with a shaky voice.
“What? You’ve been attacked at The Whitney?” she asks incredulously.
“Need you… please,” I beg, praying she arrives quickly. She’ll know what to do.
“Honey, Dex and I are in Paris on a holiday. I’m not in New York.”
True panic takes hold. Living through the attack was bad enough. I don’t know how I’m going to get through dealing with the police… and my parents… and the media… all on my own.
“Rowan? This is Dex. Tell me what happened.”
His demanding voice snaps me out of my spiral long enough to answer. “A stalker… approached me in the lobby bar… followed me upstairs. Forced his way in… and…”
And what? I couldn’t bring myself to say the next words.
“Is he still there? Are you in danger?”
Tears are flowing harder. “He’s dead,” I finally get out on a sob.
“Dead? What the fuck…” Dex pauses only a second before taking charge. “Okay, here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna make a call and in less than three minutes I’ll have someone there to help you figure this all out. Okay?” When I can’t answer through my hiccupping tears, he adds a softer, “Rowan, honey… can you hold it together for just a few more minutes?”
Can I?
I don’t really have a choice.
“I’ll try,” I finally get out.
“Good girl. Katja’s gonna take the phone back. She’ll stay with you while I make a call, okay?”
The only reply I can muster is a humming, “Uh huh.”
