By the time I reach the door, my pulse is uneven—a mixture of guilt and anticipation pounding inside me. I unlock it, grip the cold metal handle, and pull it open.
A gust of cold air rushes in, biting against my skin, teasing goosebumps across my arms. The chill cuts through me, but beneath it, my cheeks still burn, betraying the warmth that refuses to fade.
My gaze falls on a man standing in the doorway—early thirties, perhaps, his hair hidden under a baseball cap. He wears a sporty red-and-black jacket that glints faintly under the hallway light, paired with black sweatpants, his posture slouched.
“Estella, am I correct?” he asks, voice clipped, already holding out a stack of papers and a pen toward me. “Sign here,” he adds before I can even answer.
My brows knit together in suspicion. “I didn’t order anything.”
Only then do I notice the boxes at his feet—three of them, matte black, unmarked, no sender’s name, no message. They sit in perfect alignment, like something staged for a photograph.
The man exhales, impatient, his outstretched hand trembling faintly as if he’s been standing here too long. “I was told to deliver the packages,” he says flatly. “Please sign here.”
I snatch the papers and the pen from his grip, my eyes scanning the form until I find my name. The tip of the pen squeaks faintly as I scrawl a messy, uneven signature—a perfect reflection of the chaos in my head.
Confusion. Disorientation. A faint, inexplicable unease.
“Thanks. Have a good night,” he mutters mechanically before turning around and walking across the dim hallway, his silhouette swallowed by the cold light that drips through the dusty windowpanes. I watch him until all that’s left is the echo of his steps and the faint flicker of movement at the end of the hallway.
My focus drifts back to the boxes. Kneeling, I press my palms against the side of the first one and lift, surprised when it rises with almost no effort. Lighter than it looks. I give it a gentle shake beside my ear, hearing a faint rustle, something soft shifting inside.
I stack the boxes in my arms until their sharp edges dig into my skin. I barely notice the sting, curiosity drowning everything else as I haul them inside, shutting the door with my foot.
Walking to the bedroom, I set the boxes down on the bed, and the mattress gives a soft bounce beneath the weight. Crawling up beside them, I tuck one leg under me and reach for the top box. My fingers slide under the lid, and I lift.
My gaze fixes on the pinkish paper, its surface catching the dim moonlight in faint, teasing glimmers. The color seems almost alive—rich and vivid, holding a promise I can’t yet name. I move the lid carefully, set it aside, and lean in, the air around me thick with anticipation.
A shiver snakes down my spine as I begin to peel back the paper. Nestled inside, perfectly arranged, is a piece of clothing, its deep color and luxurious texture calling to be touched. And beside it, a slender bottle of perfume rests, the glass catching the light in soft, trembling sparks, like champagne caught beneath the glow of candlelight.
The sight alone makes the air feel heavier, charged, almost intoxicating, as though the contents of this small package carry more than just scent and fabric.
My gaze catches on the label, the elegant script curling across it in soft gold letters.
Étoile Noire.Black Star.
Slowly, I grab the bottle and twirl it between my fingers, letting the moonlight play across its surface. It’s mid-sized and round, cut like a precious gem—each faceted angle glinting with silvery reflections that shimmer against the smoky, champagne-colored glass. The teardrop-shaped indents catch the light and scatter it in delicate patterns across my hands, giving the bottle a distinctly feminine grace, fragile yet commanding.
On top sits a square black cap framed in gold, glimmering faintly like jewelry in the dimness.
The glass feels impossibly smooth—cool and heavy, gliding against my skin like silk. My fingers trace the curves, mesmerized by its craftsmanship, by the way it seems to breathe elegance.
Impatience building, I twist the lid off and tilt my head back, baring my throat to the air. My finger finds the sprayer, and with a soft press, the perfume mists against my neck. Droplets settle on my skin, cold for an instant before dissolving into warmth.
I close my eyes and inhale.
The scent floods my senses, dizzying, exquisite—a heady sweetness laced with the bite of pear and the earthiness of patchouli, tangled with the faint hum of rain-soaked wood. A whisper of caramel drifts beneath it all, soft and fucking addictive.
My lips part instinctively, my chest rising and falling with a deeper, more deliberate breath. I draw in another long inhale, letting it fill my lungs until the edges of the room blur and the world tilts ever so slightly, unsteady beneath me. A rush of delirium rises from somewhere deep, wrapping around my senses like a tide. The perfume clings to me with an almost sentient persistence, pressing against my skin like a lover’s lingering memory, seeping into every pore, every nerve, until I feel entirely drenched in it.
It’s… intoxicating.
It’sme. Everything I am and everything I want to be. Sweet and grounded, dangerous and alluring. Every passing second reveals another layer, another secret hidden in its scent.
Before I do something reckless—like drink it—I put the cap back on and set the bottle carefully on the bed beside me. My fingers linger for a heartbeat before I pull them away and reach for the other contents of the box.
I lift the folded fabric with a careful, almost reverent touch, letting it unfold slowly in my hands. A black tweedblazer emerges, simple in form yet utterly magnetic, drawing the eye without effort. Gold threads run through it in near-imperceptible lines, glinting softly in the weak light, like tiny constellations scattered across the night sky.
My fingertips trace the weave, feeling the interplay of textures—the subtle heft of tweed tempered by a gentle, underlying silkiness that smooths the rough edges, softening the coarseness into something almost intimate. Every fold, every seam, speaks of meticulous craft, and I can’t help but linger over it, letting my hands memorize the quiet elegance held within the fabric.
