Whisper of the Sun

Chapter 1

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I sit on the balcony, sipping my coffee as the world wakes up around me. The sky is a deep blue, holding its breath in anticipation of the sun’s arrival. Dressed in the long T-shirt I slept in, I feel the crisp freshness of the morning air on my skin. My thoughts wander, and I try to focus on the day ahead. My novel needs to be finished soon—my agent calls me impatiently daily. These quiet moments are my escape, a pause from the noise of daily life, a retreat into privacy to find the clarity I need.

I’ve created this isolation for myself, though I can hardly call it an escape from my duties. My son is a university student, and I have no one else to care for. Still, I remain close to him whenever I write, treasuring the time we have left before he fully finds his independence. As for my writing, it’s not high literature—far from it. I write adult fiction under a pseudonym and don’t even keep copies of my books at home.

I’m 50 now. I’ve never considered myself beautiful. Much of my youth was spent fighting to find a husband, to build the family I thought I needed. After years of searching, I finally settled down. I graduated with a degree in psychology and worked as a school psychologist. But when my son was six, my husband told me he was unhappy, and he left. What followed was a year-long descent into depression, a crushing weight that left me feeling trapped in a routine without purpose or hope for the future. My life became an endless cycle of caretaking, with no plans or dreams to look forward to. I couldn’t sleep.

And so, I began to write.

What started as an outlet became an awakening. I wrote fantasy—adult stories filled with the passion and adventures I wished I could experience but never had. My first novel, published online, unexpectedly became a success. Suddenly, agents were knocking on my door, eager to represent me. Anne was the only one who asked me, "How are you doing?" At the time, her kindness meant more to me than money, so I chose her. I’m fully aware I’m just another cog in her business, but that small, human connection mattered.

Success brought wealth, and I invested what I could in real estate. I always dreamed of owning a home on a Spanish island, and I made it happen. I purchased a property with several apartments and designed the top floor as my private sanctuary. It’s where I retreat alone to write my next story in complete solitude. Imagination has never left me—it fuels my work and sustains my double life.

I no longer work as a psychologist. Instead, I focus entirely on my son and enjoy my time alone, as much as any teenager allows a mother to stay involved in their life. Writing has given me freedom, but it’s also made me realize something bittersweet: the stories I craft will always remain just that—stories. My imagination may run wild, but I know those fantasies will never become reality. You can’t force someone to love you, especially if you don’t meet society’s physical standards of beauty.

So here I am, on my balcony, watching the sun rise and embracing the life I’ve built—imperfect, solitary, but my own.

My flat is on the fourth floor, overlooking a garden that feels like paradise. In the evenings, I take walks to unwind and relax. The direct view of the Mediterranean Sea makes watching the sunrise a daily ritual, a moment to breathe in the fresh, salty air and feel rejuvenated. I spend time there, letting the sea breeze fill my lungs, believing it does wonders for my health.

Occasionally, I wander the narrow streets of town in the evenings, observing life around me. However, I never step into restaurants—I’m too reserved, too private. I watch others laughing and enjoying themselves from a distance, knowing I’m not part of that world.

Often, I recognize signs of my lingering sadness, a quiet depression I’ve come to accept, that will likely stay with me for the rest of my life. Yet, I continue, finding solace in the little rituals that bring me peace.

As the sun rose, shifting from a deep red to a radiant yellow, I returned to my apartment and settled in front of my computer. I sank into my desk chair, which I had covered in soft fabric for comfort—after all, I spend most of my time there, often wearing nothing more than my nightshirt. This is my guilty pleasure: being wrapped in solitude and privacy.

I don’t dedicate much time to self-care. A quick shower, no makeup, no body lotions. Sometimes, I shower twice or thrice daily because it refreshes me and helps my mind function better. I avoid mirrors—they dampen my appetite for writing erotic stories. I don’t feel sexy, not even to myself, so how could I be for someone else?

For an entire week, I haven’t stepped out of my apartment. Day and night, I’ve been confined here, with my balcony as the only breath of fresh air. But it’s fine. Today, I’ll finish the novel and send it off to Anne. In the evening, I finally plan to go out. Hopefully, I won’t let laziness get the better of me again.

It’s already 4 AM when I finally send off the script. Exhaustion washes over me, and I decide to rest. I collapse onto the couch, intending to nap briefly, but I wake up to find it’s already 6 PM. Feeling refreshed, I realize I need to step outside—staying cooped up any longer would surely wear me down.

I dress casually, with no particular plans, to walk and clear my head quickly before returning home to sleep. As I stroll through the quiet streets of this small town, its charm stirs something within me—desires, ideas, and fantasies. They linger in my mind, already weaving into the fabric of my next book. I smile at the thought of a new story taking shape. It amazes me how my mind never seems to tire.

Far from exhausted, my imagination seems to thrive from one story to the next, growing richer and more vivid. It fuels the second identity I’ve created for myself, one I keep alive through my writing. I refuse public appearances, maintain a fabricated biography, and am aware that many of my readers idealize the image they’ve built of me. The thought amuses me.

Though I’ve been writing for over a decade, I’m sure my readers picture me as a blonde, voluptuous woman with blue eyes and an air of bold confidence, forever thirty, exuding allure and mystery. It’s an identity transcending my reality, and I can’t help but smile at the fantasy I’ve become in their minds.

The restaurants are bustling, with an atmosphere that is lively and warm. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that someone is following me. I brush it off. Why would anyone follow me? I don’t look rich or particularly striking—hardly a target for trouble. Smiling to myself, I chalk it up to exhaustion. Maybe my tired mind is conjuring up imaginary scenarios. After struggling so much to create stories, perhaps my brain has decided to craft one of its own.

Suddenly, a firm grip locks around my wrist, startling me from my thoughts. I turn around, and standing before me is a strikingly handsome man with dark hair and piercing eyes, tall and athletic. My first instinct is disbelief. I rub my eyes with my free hand, half-expecting to snap out of some vivid daydream. But this is no illusion.

"Excuse me! Who are you?" I demand, pulling against his unyielding grip on my wrist. My voice is steady, though my heart races.

"Please come with me. I’ll explain everything," he said in a deep, commanding voice. Beside him stood another man, about the same height and equally athletic, his piercing eyes locked onto mine.

"No! Let me go, leave me alone!" I shouted, my voice trembling as the people on the terrace turned to stare. "I’ll call the police!"

"Calm down, darling. Please, relax. I’m here to help you," he said with a cryptic smile before pulling me into an unyielding embrace. He was so strong that my head was buried against his chest, and his grip was as tight as steel, giving me no chance to resist. He laughed softly and muttered something in Spanish, words I couldn’t understand.

"Listen," he whispered near my ear, his tone low but firm, "no one here cares about your little scene. Behave, and everything will be fine."

He paused, then added, "I’ll let you go now, but don’t make me regret it. Do as I say, and you won’t get hurt. Just follow me, and this will all be over soon."

"I don’t have any money," I pleaded, my voice cracking. "I can’t give you anything."

"This isn’t about money," he replied, his tone cold. "I’m not here to rob you… And I’m not here to hurt you. Just cooperate, and everything will be fine."

He never let me go completely. His hand remained wrapped around my wrist—not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to make it clear I wasn’t free. He was practically dragging me down a dark, narrow side street. At the end of it, a car was waiting.

"Listen," he said, his tone flat but insistent. "I’ll take you to my boss. You’ll talk to him, and that’s it. No harm, no trouble."

I froze. Panic seized me. No one knew where I was. I hadn’t told anyone. I didn’t even know what they wanted from me. My thoughts spiraled as he shoved me into the back seat of the car. He climbed beside me while another man slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

"Please," I stammered, trying to steady my voice. "I feel sick. I don’t want to throw up in your car—stop for a moment, please."

The driver hesitated but pulled to a stop. I gripped the handle, desperate to escape, but the doors were locked. My heart raced, and I shook my head, willing myself to wake up from what had to be a bad dream. But it wasn’t a dream. It was all too real.

"Lady," the man beside me said, his voice sharp and cold. "Don’t fight us, don’t try to escape. We’re too strong for that, and it won’t end well for you. I already told you—no one’s going to hurt you. Come with us, meet the boss, and it’ll end. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be."

"But why didn’t your boss invite me in a more civilized way?" I asked, trying to understand the situation.

"He tried, but you ignored him," he replied in a calm, steady voice. "He sent you emails, even letters. For a while, he was busy trying to contact you properly. But you ignored everything. This matter is important to him, so he has arranged this meeting to ensure your attendance. Simple."

"I was working! I don’t read emails often, and I don’t check the briefcase," I shot back defensively.

"Whatever," he said dismissively. "Now you’ll meet him and clear everything up. But I need to blindfold you—you're not supposed to know the location. Please cooperate. Just put on your seatbelt and leave the rest to me. It’ll be fine," he reassured me.

I had no other option, so I followed his instructions. He tied a soft, black fabric around my eyes, cutting off my sight. Then, he gently took my hand and pressed a water bottle into it.