I’m not asking for too much. I’ve just been asking it of the wrong men.
From my dining-room window, the Garden District looks picture perfect—painted shutters, flowering magnolias, and brick sidewalks edged with manicured hedges. Neighbors sip morning coffee on their porches, confident their lives are safe behind black iron fences and polished facades.
It’s beautiful and perfect. And I have no one to share it with.
I might live in a picture-perfect neighborhood, but I wasn’t built for it. Not when all I can think about is being slammed against one of those polished white columns by a man with rough hands and dark intentions. Someone who doesn’t worship me gently but claims me like a secret he'll never confess.
Clearly, my vibrator didn’t get the job done last night.
I move to the living room and sink onto the couch, flipping on the TV. Then, I open my laptop and check my email.
Inbox. One subject line stands out.
Your package has been delivered. Left in the mailbox.
It’s the lingerie I ordered. White lace with garter straps. A thong so thin it’ll disappear the second I put it on. The bra’s unlined—soft, sheer, and made for seduction.
Bridal.
I bought it for my birthday—for him. Something he’d tear off in a rush, claiming what was his, on the night he proposed. The night I intended to be unforgettable.
It’s fucking laughable now.
I slide my feet into house slippers and head straight for the front door in my robe, not bothering to check the windows for neighbors out and about.
I walk to the mailbox and open it, sifting through the contents. Inside sit several envelopes, but on top rests a napkin stamped with a black serpent monogram, alongside the slim plastic mailer holding the lingerie.
The stamp is Leviathan’s signature.
My heart thuds once. Then again, harder—pounding as if it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest.
I lift my head. The street is empty, and yet the chill winding up my spine says otherwise.
The napkin rests in my palm, edges soft against my fingers. The writing is precise, bold, slanted. Every stroke carries weight.
Careful what you wish for, Laurette.
You have my attention.
—B
My stomach knots.
Oh my God.
Someone was listening last night. Close enough to catch every word. Bold enough to follow me home.
And now, whoever he is, knows who I am.
Where I live.
What I want.
The door thuds shut behind me as I rush inside, moving too fast, my heart hurrying ahead of me. I pass the console table and drop the mail and package without thinking. My fingers tremble as I fumble unlocking my phone.
I open the app tied to my home security and curse under my breath as my thumb shakes on the screen. A few swipes later and the night plays out in muted bluish tones, lit only by porch lights and street lamps. Every motion is etched in shadow.
The timestamp is 1:14 a.m. There I am walking up the steps, unlocking the door, disappearing behind it without so much as a glance over my shoulder.
