I should panic. I know that. This is invasive. Unsettling.
But instead, something else blooms in my chest.
Intrigue.
It’s the same sender. The same handwriting. The same precise confidence. Is he stalking me? Tracking my movements, slipping notes into my pockets like a magician’s trick?
Or—
I tilt my head, considering.
Maybe it’s a woman? No. The tone is wrong. Too deliberate. Too measured. This is a man. One who watches closely. One who thinks he understands me.
Someone interested in me.
That realization sends a strange shiver through me—not fear. Awareness.
This time, I don’t leave the note behind.
I fold it carefully and slip it back into my pocket, smoothing my coat as if nothing has happened. Then I reapplymy gloss, meet my own gaze in the mirror, and square my shoulders.
When I step back into the gallery, I don’t look for him.
But I know one thing for certain: Whoever he is…he’s getting closer.
The notes don’t stop.
One appears in my mailbox, tucked among my other letters. Another is slipped between the pages of a book I’m reading on the subway. One waits inside a box at my door, unmarked, as if it always belonged there. Every day. Always brief. Always precise. Never crossing into threat—but never accidental either.
By the end of the week, I’m hyper-aware of my surroundings. Of pockets. Of pauses. Of the quiet confidence it takes to get this close without being seen.
I’m at brunch with Vivian when I read the latest one.
The café is warm and sunlit, all white tile and hanging plants, the air thick with roasted coffee and citrus. Cutlery clinks against porcelain. Laughter drifts from nearby tables. A waiter squeezes past us carrying a tray of mimosas, orange light catching in the glasses like jewels.
I’m eating with my close friend, Vivian. She comes from a Franco-Russian old-money family, and although I usually turn a deaf ear and blind eye to that part of my life associated with power and wealth, Vivian is someone I love so much.
She isn’t the typical wealthy heiress. She’s a smart, kind, and talented artist, which is why we bond so well. Plus, she’s never asked me for a review. We never mix business with our relationship.
Vivian is mid-story about a disastrous date when I unfold the latest note I received from this nameless sender.
“Listen to this,” I say, reading aloud.
“Meet me someday. I want to know what else you ruin so beautifully.”
Vivian gasps, one manicured hand flying to her chest. “Oh my goodness,” she says, grinning. “That is such a sweet letter.”
I snap the paper shut and glare at her. “It’s not sweet. It’s disturbing.”
She laughs, undeterred. “Sienna, please. Someone is clearly obsessed with your mind. This is romantic. Mysterious. Very dark-academia-coded.”
“This is not a book,” I say flatly. “This is my life. Someone is following me, Vivian. Slipping things into my pockets without me noticing.”
Vivian leans forward, lowering her voice. “Or,” she says, “it’s an admirer who knows exactly how to get your attention.”
“That’s not comforting.”
She shrugs, sipping her mimosa. “You don’t seem terrified.”
