Dark hair.
Six foot three.
Broad.
Have an eight pack.
Rich enough to buy half the fantasies I could inspire.
Not to mention the 10,5 inch monster I always carry in my pants, which makes allthe girls scream in pleasure, always begging me for more.
So, just like I said - perfect #BooktokBoyfriend
It’s obscene how well the image fits me.
I let out a low laugh, sharp and devilish.
Then I lift my phone, angle it at the mirror, and take a picture.
Just a souvenir.
A reminder.
The real game hasn’t even started yet.
****
The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
The perfect stage.
Jamie and I spent the entire day in separate orbits, avoiding each other like it was just another mundane Thursday—but tonight, everything changes.
I watch him from the shadowed hallway outside his art studio. There he is, bent over his canvas, pencil moving across the page with focused precision. I can feel the tension in my chest, the kind of excitement that only comes from a plan perfectly executed.
Tonight, he’ll remember me. Really remember me.
I lift the burner phone, my fingers tapping in a rhythm I’ve memorized over the last three weeks.
The text is simple. Innocent-seeming, if you squint:
“Missed me, sweetheart?”
I hit send.
Immediately, I see it—Jamie freezes. His pencil drops. Eyes wide, jaw tight, chest hitching. Fear curls over him like smoke. He bolts from the chair, his feet scrambling across the hardwood, heading for the front door. He checks the locks, the windows. My chest tightens with anticipation.
Naive, little Jamie.
Thinking he can outrun what’s already in his house.
I smile, a slow, predatory curve of my lips.
His hunter is already here. Everything is exactly as planned.
Another text, and the grin widens:
