ONE
INDIGO
The steam curls up from my chamomile tea like little ghosts in the late afternoon light. I cup the mug in both hands, letting the warmth seep into my palms as I sit cross-legged on the cream velvet sofa in my living room. The house is quiet except for the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the hall and the occasional sigh of the AC kicking on. Outside, the Saint Pierce sun is dipping low, painting the palms gold through the sheer curtains.
I take a slow sip, eyes half-closed. The tea tastes like honey and calm—exactly what I need right now. In three days, I'll be on a plane to Cupid City for the Lingerie Showcase. Not just walking; headlining. The theme is "Love in Every Curve," all silk and shadows, lace that looks like midnight secrets. I've been practicing my turns in the mirror for weeks, perfecting that slow, liquid glide that makes photographers lose their minds. My agent says this could be the one that catapults me from "rising star" to household name. I believe her. Mostly.
I let my mind drift to the runway. The lights will be low, crimson and violet, pulsing like a heartbeat. I'll step out in that black corset with the garnet beads, the one that cinches my waistuntil breathing feels like a performance. The music will swell—something deep and electronic—and I'll feel the eyes of the entire front row on me. Hungry. Appreciative. A little dangerous. I love that part. The power in being looked at and knowing exactly how to give them more without giving anything away.
A smile tugs at my lips. I set the mug on the glass coffee table and stretch my arms overhead, feeling the pull in my shoulders from yesterday's Pilates. Everything is lined up. Flight's booked, show fitting tomorrow morning, press junket the day after. I just need to stay loose, stay centered. No drama. No distractions.
That's when I hear it.
A soft click from the back of the house. Like a door latch releasing.
My body freezes before my brain catches up. The sound is wrong. Too deliberate. The house is supposed to be locked—deadbolt, chain, alarm armed. I always set it when I'm home alone.
Then the alarm shrieks.
It's deafening, a piercing wail that drills straight into my skull. Red lights flash from the panel in the foyer. Motion detected. Rear entry.
My heart slams against my ribs. I snatch my phone from the cushion beside me, fingers shaking as I swipe to the emergency dial. The alarm keeps screaming as my breathing kicks up.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Someone's in my house," I whisper-shout over the noise. "The alarm just went off. I'm alone. Please hurry."
The operator is calm, asking for my address, asking if I can see the intruder. I can't. I'm still on the sofa, legs tucked under me like that'll make me invisible. I edge toward the hallway, peering around the corner. Nothing. Just shadows stretching long across the hardwood.
"Stay on the line," she says. "Officers are en route. ETA five minutes."
Five minutes feels like forever.
I back into the kitchen, putting the island between me and the hall. My pulse is thunder in my ears. Then I see it—on the counter, right next to my fruit bowl. A folded piece of paper that wasn't there before.
White. Ordinary. My name scrawled on the front in black marker:Indigo.
My stomach drops.
I don't touch it at first. I just stare, like it might bite. The alarm is still blaring, but the world narrows to that square of paper. Finally, I unfold it with trembling fingers.
One line, written in neat script letters:
I'm always watching.
No signature. No threat beyond the words themselves. But they land like ice water down my spine.
Sirens wail in the distance. Real ones this time.
The police arrive in a storm of lights and boots. Two officers sweep the house while I wait on the front porch, arms wrapped around myself even though it's eighty degrees. They find the back door jimmied—clean, professional. No prints on thehandle. The intruder was in and out fast. They bag the note as evidence, take my statement, promise to increase patrols. Standard procedure, they say. Probably just a creep who saw my face in a magazine.
I nod like I believe them.
When they're gone, the house feels too big, too quiet again. I reset the alarm, double-check every lock, then call Etta.
My manager picks up on the first ring. "Indi? You okay? You sound?—"
"Someone broke in." The words tumble out. "They left a note. 'I'm always watching.' Police just left."
