I close my eyes for a moment, letting the sensation ground me. There’s a quiet kind of reverence in touching something so perfectly made.
That’s the thing about luxury—it never stops at quality alone. It exists in the way it presents itself, in the careful folds of wrapping, the gentle crease of a ribbon, the deliberate weight of attention lavished on every detail. It’s in the whisper of hands that cared enough to craft it, in the invisible promise that somewhere, somehow, someone thought of you as they shaped it.
I always let that illusion seep deep, sinking into my bones like a slow-burning fire, letting it settle under my skin. As long as it stirs something within me, I never question it.
But this one is different. Even before I touched it, I knew. It carries a precision, a quiet intimacy that screams it was truly made for me alone, and no one else.
Gently, I lay the blazer on the bed beside the perfume, arranging it with care as though I’m setting up a shrine. The fabric gleams faintly under the moonlight, threads of gold catching the glow, and for a moment, I just stare. Heat builds low in my stomach, spreading a wave of sweet, teasing pleasure.
I bathe in the feeling for a beat longer before I reach for the next two boxes. The second one yields a soft, deliberate rustle as I lift the lid, revealing a pair of trousers folded with the same meticulous care. The fabric matches the blazer perfectly—the same deep, shadowed tweed, sleek and structured.
The third box responds with a faint, anticipatory creak as I pry it open. Inside, the loafers sit like artifacts on display—polished black leather, bold without arrogance, refined in every curve. Each stitch, each line of the sole, speaks of intention, of craftsmanship honed to the point of art.
I place them all together on the bed—the blazer, the trousers, the loafers, and the bottle of perfume gleaming like a gem among them. My teeth find the corner of my mouth as I take it all in, the scene cinematic in its perfection.
Elegant, yet devastating. Both the scent and the outfit.
My lips quiver, a subtle rebellion against the careful armor of composure I wear. Slowly, impossibly, a smile begins to unfurl—tentative at first, a mere whisper of motion, then expanding, stretching across my face like sunlight spilling into a shadowed room. It blooms into something undeniable, something rare and alive, fragile yet profound, a pulse of happiness that lingers quietly beneath the surface, deep enough to root itself in the bones of me.
Not because I am drawn to beauty for its own sake. Not because I hunger for luxury, or the meticulous dance of ritual and presentation. None of that matters here.
It matters because hethoughtofme. Because every fold, every line, every shimmer of gold in the fabric, every subtle scent of the perfume was meant forme.
The warm thought lingers until a vibration against the blanket cuts through it. My phone buzzes once, sending a sharp sound into the hush of the room.
For a heartbeat, I simply stare at it, frozen in the quiet hum of the room, my pulse hammering against my ribs like a frantic drum. The world narrows, and for a few fragile seconds, I let myself sink into the moment, letting the gravity of it pull at every nerve. Then, slowly, painstakingly, I gather the scattered fragments of my mind, coaxing them into some semblance of order, searching for the brittle threads of strength that still cling to me.
My fingers hover for a fraction longer, trembling with anticipation, before I stretch across the bed, brushing against the soft folds of the blanket. My hand finds the phone hidden beneath, lifting it carefully, as if even the gentlest movement could shatter the fragile calm that has settled over me.
The screen flares to life, harsh and bright against the dark, bleaching my face in white light. My eyes blink, struggling to adjust.
A single message glows on the screen.
UNKNOWN:
The last gift isn’t something that can be sent.
Istare at the phone, its glow painting my face in pale light, every flicker revealing the storm beneath my skin. The message lingers for only a few seconds before vanishing, swallowed by the screen’s emptiness, yet it leaves behind a pulse I can’t quiet—a warmth that spreads fast and deep. My cheeks flush crimson, the heat sinking lower, and a single bead of sweat gathers beneath my hairline. The rush of adrenaline surges through me, wild and electric, setting every nerve alight.
I don’t reply. I can’t. Words feel meaningless in the wake of what I just read. Instead, I rise and walk to the window, the phone still clutched tight in my hand.
The handle turns with a faint metallic click. I push it open, and the night air spills in. Its cold slaps against my face andbody, but it can’t reach the heat simmering in my bones—that molten thread of emotion winding tighter and tighter inside me.
I scan the street below, eyes darting between the pools of light and shadow, searching. For something.
Forhim.
For the man who might be out there, hidden in the dark, watching.
My pulse rockets, spine snapping taut as every muscle tightens in anticipation. The city lies hushed, shadows stretching long across empty buildings, dark fingers tracing the streets. Not a sound stirs. Not a breath. Yet I can feel him—that invisible presence clinging to me like the lingering echo of a heartbeat that is not my own.
Do Iwanthim to be here?
Do I want him to watch me? To drink in a reaction from the game he started?
He knows exactly what he’s doing. But I am not blind. He has looked inside me, peeling back the surface, brushing past the layers I show to the world, and uncovering something raw—something that mirrors his own reflection. He has studied me, observed the subtle rhythms of my movements, listened to the cadence of my voice, and watched the flickers behind my eyes.
Patiently. Methodically. With a precision that feels almost surgical. He knows what I crave, and he knows how to give it to me.
