Dmitry Antonov.
I drag in a breath, roll onto my side and swipe to answer. My voice is polished sorority-girl neutral. “Hello.”
“Good morning, darling.”
His deep voice slides over my skin like a warm hand. Heat pools low in my stomach. I tighten my grip on the phone. “I’m not your darling.”
I hear the smile in his silence. He wanted that reaction. He got it.
“Why are you calling me?” I ask, sharper than I meant to.
“To remind you to start hinting to your friends that we are dating. People saw us together last night. If you tell them it started then, they will believe it. Our chemistry sells the story for us.”
I bite my lip. I hate that he’s right. I hate more that it isn’t really a lie. Whatever we have between us is wild and real, even if I wish it wasn’t. He dried my tears, held me, gave me a moment where I didn’t have to pretend. No one else has ever done that. I will never say it to him.
Instead I put on my mask again. “Fine. But if we’re playing boyfriend and girlfriend, I need new shoes for the Finance Society gala on Friday. The right ones. We have to make a strong impression. It’s our first outing as a fake couple.”
I except the same condescension and judgment that my father gives me when I ask for new clothes. I expect Dmitry totell me to wear whatever I have. I don’t even need new shoes, to be honest. I’m only using it as an excuse to get enough money to pay rent since my dad cut me off. A girl has to do whatever she can to survive.
Relief floods my lungs at his straightforward response. “How much.”
“Five hundred.” My voice stays steady even though my heart is racing. I’m thinking of groceries, not stilettos. I’ll borrow something from Lila. We have the same shoe size. She often lends me clothes and shoes without digging for reasons.
The notification buzzes before I even lower the phone. I open my banking app and stare at the new balance. “You actually sent it?”
“I did.”
“Wait. How do you even know my account number? I never told you.”
“I’m your stalker,” he says, like it’s a joke but not a joke. “I know everything about you.”
The words land like a spark on gasoline. My pulse jumps.
I remember last night. There was a weird feeling, like someone was in my room. I could feel something on my body, but I can’t remember what. I was too sleepy to notice. The strange sensation of eyes on me as I lay in bed. The certainty that someone was near even though my door was locked.
“Were you watching me last night?” I whisper.
“I was doing more than watching,” he says, his voice low enough to crawl under my skin.
A shiver runs through me. No. It can’t be. I have to be imagining it. He wouldn’t actually touch me, would he? I mean, he doesn’t look that desperate for sex. But my pussy is exploding with heat and sparks at the idea of Dmitry Antonov, my bully/stalker caressing my intimate folds at night, making me come in my sleep. Did I really feel his hands on my body, touching me?
A stab of pleasure lances through my stomach. My pussy convulses, fluttering like a horde of butterflies. Is that why I was wet and needy this morning? Because he pressed his fingers into my puss last night and left me on the brink of an orgasm? If he did stroke my slit at night, how did I not feel it?
I have a lot of fever dreams at night, but they’re just dreams. I used to have them even back in high school. I shake my head. I’m blowing this out of proportion.
Also, my core should not be so heated at the idea of a man touching me without my permission at night, stroking my most intimate places while I sleep, oblivious. But god help me, I’m into some fucked-up shit.
“You need to stop.” I clear my throat, trying to sound confident. “It’s an invasion of my privacy.”
“That’s why I do it,” he replies. “So you know I have the power to invade your privacy. So you know you cannot hide from me. You are never alone, Callista. I’m always there, always watching you.”
I swallow hard. I want to tell him he’s a monster. I want to tell him to stop. But somewhere deep down, the part of me that has been crying alone since childhood feels something different. Just having a person by my side when I’m feeling vulnerable and lonely matters, even if that person shouldn’t even be there.
Paradoxically, his words make me feel less scared. Because if I’m in trouble and he’s watching me, he won’t let me do something stupid. No one has ever wanted to observe me. No one has ever cared enough to look under the mask. People are satisfied as long as I give them what they want. Flattery, connections, a perfect smile.
Dmitry is different. He looks for the truth. He wants to crack me open and see all the ugliness I hide. That terrifies me. If he sees who I really am, I will never be able to lie again. At least, not to him.
I force myself to speak. “Fine. Keep watching me. Maybe I’ll even put on a good show for you one of these days.”
