I shot up, my scream piercing the calmness of the night. Around me, the sheets were soaked with sweat. My heart hammered in my ears, my blood pumped vigorously. Pictures and scenes from the nightmare flashed before my eyes. I had enough initiative to bury my head in my white pillow to muffle the next oncoming screams. Hot tears streamed down my face, blinding me. These were one of the times that I wished I didn't have a photographic memory; in cases like these, forgetting was essential.
I hated this. I hated him. Of course, if I thought that, I would actually be lying to myself. I loved him. I love him. But he left me. I love him, I tell him I love him, and he friggin' leaves me. Why did I have to fall for Jamie Owen so much?
Why did he have to die?
Tears pricked my eyes as I tried to steadily walk in the publishing office that I worked-soon will own-in. Ignorant smiles and way-too-happy greetings were directed my way. Being the company's directors' daughter/step-daughter and the most dedicated employee, I was well-known throughout all the publishing companies in the continent. I had helped this company to rise from the ashes and mess it had been, and my mom and Joe were absolutely impressed. Sooner rather than later, my parents (I highly considered Joe as a parent, since he is my stepdad) would announce an arranged marriage, since I seem to be too lethargic on that department. I knew that they wouldn't want to force me into it, but I would be willing anyway; there was no-one in this world that could replace him.
I plastered on a fake smile as I walked through the automatic glass doors of my office. I was surprised to find my mother, Joe and two men I didn't know inside.
'Cammie, dear,' greeted Rachel Ann Morgan, my goddess of a mother. She gave me a sweet warm smile and I forced my self to return it.
I looked over to Joe, his beautiful green eyes piercing through my somewhat flawless façade. He gave that knowing, sympathetic smile of his the turned back to his paperwork. His brows wrinkled in concentration at the sheets of numbers and accounts for the company, yet I knew that he was paying attention to every word that was going to be said. I always admired this little talent of his, and at the same time freaked me out. When I was little, about 3 years after my father's death and 1 and a half years after he and Mom got married, he used to cheer me up by saying to me he used to be a spy for the CIA. Of course, being eight, I didn't believe him; but in adulthood, I was seriously weighing his capabilities and the possibilities. Didn't mean his little ability didn't freak me out.
I turned to my mother, one eyebrow arched, asking "Who are these people?"
'Oh!' she exclaimed, appearing to be flustered. As if anything could deter Rachel Cameron Morgan. 'I almost forgot. This is Mr. Chipper.' She gestured towards the forty-something looking man, whose hair brown chestnut hair was slightly thinning and whitening in some places. My eyes widened as I realized woe the person before me.
Mt widened eyes made Eleazar Chipper,