I am sick and fucking tired of letting him run wild in my mind.
Morning transitions into afternoon slowly as I sip my second latte, legs crossed, sketchbook open but untouched. For once, I’m not working. In two hours, the girls will be here for the weekend, but until then I’m simply existing without anything demanding my time or energy, letting sunlight spill over me as if the air belongs to me, as if I belong here.
It feels good. Too good. The kind of good that makes my skin prickle because peace like this doesn’t last. Peace is just the breath you take before the blow lands. As if I summoned him,that's when the waiter approaches carrying a sleek white box tied with a black silk ribbon, which he holds out to me with a warm smile.
“Mademoiselle,” he says, placing it on my table with that practiced, effortless smile. “For you.”
I blink, instinctively pushing it away. “I didn’t order anything.”
“It was delivered,” he replies, accent thick. “Specifically for your table.”
The chill hits instantly—thin, sharp, sliding down my spine like the whisper of a knife. Every nerve prickles; the sensation of eyes on me makes my skin crawl as I stare at the box. A simple black bow rests on top, neat and unassuming, but it isn’t what has me frozen.
It’s the card tucked underneath. The handwriting—so familiar it steals my breath—swirls across my name, each curve of the letters like a memory I can’t escape.
He hasn’t logged in since that last message. No commands or private streams. Nothing but silence and coffee. And yet he’s everywhere. In the tilt of a stranger’s smile. In the dark flash of a passing car window. In the way my pulse spikes like I can feel his eyes even when I know—know—I’m alone.
I reach for my phone before I hesitate. Who am I going to text? It’s not like I have guards anymore, and telling the girls will just make things even messier. Instead, I scroll. Back through our old messages sent just after Abbie’s honeymoon. Pressing the bruise just to see if it still hurts. It does. Every time.
Swallowing down the hurt that tries to demand my attention at our last exchange, I pocket my phone and pull the ribbon loose. Inside, sheer La Perla thigh-highs, a black suspender belt, matching thong, and strapless bra are nestled carefully in tissue paper, topped with another note.
Wear them. Or don’t. Either way, I’ll know.
—M
My head jerks up. The café around me fades into too-bright shapes. People laugh. Cups clink. No one is watching me. And yet I feel it.
My pulse kicks hard, bird-wild, as I scan mirrors, corners, and reflections. I half-expect to see him there—eyes dark and fixed on me the way they used to when I was on camera, when I belonged to him in ways I never said out loud.
But the world keeps moving like nothing has shifted.
He isn’t supposed to know where I am.
Butof coursehe does.
He always did, and that’s part of the problem. For the best part of eight years, I was used to him watching over me, never being more than a short phone call away. To assume that his stalkerish tendencies had stopped just because I’ve been branded an outsider was foolish on my end.
The audacity makes me want to burn the lingerie and send the charred remains to him. No, fuck that. I’ll send them to hisfiancée.See how he likes me intruding inhislife for a change.
And yet, frustratingly, somewhere under the anger, something aches for him. For the way his eyes would soften when they found me. For the way his hands mapped my skin like he knew every stretch mark and scar and didn’t flinch away from any of them. For the way my name sounded in his mouth—rough and reverent at the same time. Like I was a curse and a blessing all at once.
My pulse hammers hard and fast, a panicked bird trapped in a cage.
I hate that my skin feels alive at the thought of his eyes.
I hate that I wonder what it would feel like to slide the stockings up my legs. To let him win.
Because it isn’t just fear crawling under my skin.
It’s wanting.
And wanting him feels like betrayal.
Because I still remember how it felt to love him.
And I still remember how it felt when he let me fall.
He’s back.
