Why?
Why me? I’m nobody. I have nothing to offer a man who can afford this.
I lift the necklace from the box. It feels heavy, cold like ice. Without thinking—driven by a trance-like compulsion—I bring it to my neck.
I fasten the clasp. It clicks shut with a definitive sound.
It fits perfectly. Not too loose, not too tight. It rests against the hollow of my throat, right where my pulse is fluttering wildly. I walk to the small, cracked mirror above my dresser.
I look at my reflection. My eyes are wide, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them. My hair is messy from the wind. But the necklace... it claims me. It looks like a collar.
A branded possession.
I lift my hand to touch the little birdcage pendant. As I do, I notice something on the mirror.
Writing.
It’s written in the dust that accumulates on the top corner of the glass. Just one word, traced by a large, gloved finger.
MINE.
A whimper escapes my throat. I spin around, scanning the room again, suddenly feeling the weight of his gaze. The apartment feels smaller now. The walls feel closer.
He’s not here physically, but his presence is suffocating. He was in my room. He touched my things. He laid this box on my pillow. He stood in front of this mirror and wrote that word while looking at the reflection of my empty bed.
I rush to the window and look down at the street.
Four stories down, parked illegally by a fire hydrant, is a sleek black sedan. The windows are tinted so dark they look like voids. It’s out of place among the beat-up taxis and delivery trucks.
As I watch, the rear window rolls down just an inch.
I can’t see inside. It’s too dark. But I see the flare of a lighter. A brief, orange flame illuminating a strong jawline and the tip of a cigarette.
He’s waiting. He wanted me to find it. He wanted to see me wearing it.
Can he see me now? Can he see the diamonds glittering at my throat?
I should step away. I should close the blinds.
Instead, I press my hand against the cold glass. My nipples harden painfully against the fabric of my bra, a jolt of arousal shooting straight to my core, hot and shameful.
I don’t pull away. I stand there, displayed for him, wearing his collar.
"Who are you?" I whisper to the glass, my breath fogging the pane.
The car engine rumbles to life—a low, predatory growl that vibrates through the pavement. The window rolls up. The car pulls away slowly, disappearing into the traffic of the city night.
I’m left alone in the silence of my apartment, clutching the birdcage at my throat.
I sink to the floor, my knees finally giving out. I pull my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth. I’m terrified. I’m confused.
And God help me, I can’t wait for him to come back.
My hand drifts down, sliding between my thighs. I shouldn't. It’s sick. It’s wrong. The priest was right; I need to guard my body.
But my body doesn't belong to me anymore.
I close my eyes, picturing the man in the car. The jawline. The smoke. The size of him that I sensed in the confession booth shadows.
