My fingers hammered out a professional response, but the email's words coiled in my brain like a venomous snake.
Hit send on the last word. Leaned back, gasping. The office felt alien, dangerous—every shadow hiding spying eyes.
I needed a to-do list for the rest of the day. Mechanically, I yanked open the desk drawer for my notepad—my fingers brushed something that shouldn't be there. A thick manila envelope, sitting right on top.
I'd never seen it before.
My heart pounded. Trembling fingers tore it open. A stack of photos spilled onto the desk. The first was my side profile, focused on designing—perfect composition, if it wasn't a creep shot. The second twisted my gut. Angle from the bedside: me on my side, nightgown slipped to my waist, legs and panties exposed. Third, the gown bunched at my collarbone, breasts fully bare. Fourth... a close-up of my sleeping face, surface smeared with sticky, pale fluid. My hand brushed it accidentally, coming away slick.
I bolted to the studio bathroom in the corner, cranked the faucet, and scrubbed the stickiness off. That pervert. He'd snuck into my bedroom while I slept, jerked off on my photo?
My hands turned red from rubbing. Finally clean. Splashed cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror was pale, blue eyes wide with panicand disgust.
Back at the desk, I forced myself to flip through the rest. Fingers shook, but I had to know what else this freak did.
Handwritten notes on the backs, black ink.
On the breast-exposed one: [My exclusive toy.]
On the panties one: [Soon, this will be filled with my cum.]
On the cum-smeared face close-up: [Your midnight snack from me. Like it?]
I belonged to him? To this coward who wouldn't show his face? This shadow-lurking creep? I shoved the photos back in, like they'd bite.
Every corner of the office turned suspicious. How'd he slip the envelope in my drawer? Did he have a key? Fear and rage twisted around me, crushing the envelope in my fist.
"Elena?" Anna pushed the door open, arms full of fabric samples. "Milan emailed again, wants to add—oh God, you okay? You look awful."
"Fine. Breakfast didn't sit right, messed with my stomach," I forced a smile. "Handle Milan for me. I... got something urgent."
She eyed me suspiciously but didn't push. "Okay."
After she left, I slumped in the chair, staring at the drawer. That envelope sat like a ticking bomb.
Phone. Needed to call Marco. Fingers stabbed his number wildly. Each second of ringing stretched like a year.
"Elena?" His voice came through, warm and concerned. "What's wrong?"
"Marco, can you—" My voice shook. "Can you come to the studio now?"
"What happened?" Alertness sharpened his tone. "Why's your voice trembling?"
"Please, just come."
"I'm on my way. Ten minutes."
Waiting felt like an eternity after hanging up. I stood by the window, eyes on the street. Every pedestrian a potential threat, every parked car hiding that freak.
Finally, Marco's deep blue sedan pulled up. He practically leaped out, burst through the door, face etched with worry.
"Elena!"
He rushed over, brown eyes scanning me for injuries.
"I'm okay," I said. "Look at this."
I handed him just the work shot and the sleeping close-up. Marco took them, his expression shifting from confusion to shock to pure rage. Jaw clenched, temple vein bulging.
