the temporary relief. I closed my eyes and attempted to return to my deep breathing. It didn’t work. Dammit. I was too tired and jittery for yoga, so I rifled through my bag for my phone.
Social media wasn’t the best anxiety-reducing tactic, but it was a great distraction. I just had to stick to my carefully curated YouTube feed of cute animals, styling tips, and hair and makeup tutorials. Any other app was too much of a minefield to navigate when I was feeling like this.
Lip gloss, moisturizer, cafe receipt… I paused when my hand brushed a plain white envelope. I didn’t remember putting that in my bag. I didn’t even own mailing envelopes since I did everything via email these days. I picked up the envelope and slid a finger under the flap to open it. It was unmarked—no addressee, no return address, no stamp. A sheet of equally plain white paper was nestled inside. Foreboding slithered down my spine when I unfolded it. At first, I thought it was blank, but then my eyes focused on the single line of black type at the top. You were supposed to wait for me, Stella. You didn’t. No direct threat, but the message was ominous enough to send my dinner rising in my throat. Ugly memories from two years ago swamped me in a rush. Candid photos of me in the city—laughing with friends through the window of a restaurant, scrolling through my phone while I waited for the metro, shopping in a boutique in Georgetown. Letters that swung wildly from effusive declarations of love to graphic fantasies of what the sender wanted to do to me.
All sent to my personal home address. That went on for weeks until I became so paranoid and stressed I couldn’t shower unless Jules was sitting right outside in the living room. Even then, I’d been plagued with nightmares of my stalker storming into my house and hurting her before he came for me. Then one day, the letters and photos just stopped, like the sender had dropped off the face of the earth. I thought he’d either tired of me or gotten arrested. But now… Terror turned my blood into ice. I was dimly aware that I hadn’t moved since I read the note. I should. I should check the house for intruders and call the police, not that they’d been any help the last time this happened. But I was paralyzed, frozen with disbelief and the sharp, metallic taste of fear. It’d been two years since I’d heard from my stalker. Why was he back now? Had he always been there, watching and biding his time? Or had he left, then returned for whatever reason?
And if the note was in my purse… My breaths rushed out faster. Tiny black dots danced in front of my vision as the implication crystallized. No stamps and address meant the stalker had gotten close enough to slip the envelope into my bag. He’d been right there. He’d probably touched me. Invisible spiders crawled over my skin. I’d cleaned out my bag last night and hadn’t seen the note, so it must’ve happened sometime that day. My brain cycled through the list of places I’d visited that day. Coffee shop. The Georgetown waterfront to shoot a campaign with my tripod. The grocery store. The metro. Christian’s apartment. The list wasn’t long, but save for Christian’s house, every place had been crowded for someone to slip the note into my bag without me noticing. The silence of the apartment morphed into something thick and ominous, interrupted only by my shallow, gasping breaths. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get enough oxygen into my lungs, and I— The harsh, jarring ring of the doorbell ripped through the quiet and caused every hair on my skin to stand on end.
It was the stalker. It had to be. No one would visit this late at night without notice. Oh, God. I needed to hide, call 911, do something, but my body refused to obey my brain’s commands.
The doorbell rang again, and my fight or flight finally kicked in. I stumbled toward the nearest
hiding spot—a side table wedged between the couch and the air-conditioning unit. The phantom breath of my stalker brushed against my neck as I crawled beneath the table. I could feel him behind me, a malevolent presence whose icy fingers clawed at my shirt and squeezed the oxygen from my lungs. The floor tilted, and my head collided with one of the table legs as I attempted to sink as deep into the darkness as possible. The pain was only a whisper of sensation compared to the chills swamping my skin. Another ring of the doorbell, followed by knocking. “Stella!” I couldn’t distinguish who the voice belonged to. I didn’t even know if it was real. I just wanted it to go away. I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. The A/C was off, but I couldn’t stop shaking. I wasn’t ready to die. I’d barely lived. The knocks continued, growing louder and more frequent until they finally stopped. A pause ensued, followed by the sound of a key turning in the door. Footsteps echoed against the hardwood floors, but they paused when a whimper clawed up my throat. A few seconds later, a pair of black leather loafers stopped in front of me. I squeezed my eyes shut and scooted deeper into the corner until my back hit the wall. Pleasepleaseplease— “Stella.” I had a taser in my bag.
Why hadn’t I grabbed my taser? I’d only held onto the letter, which I’d dropped onto the floor next to me. It was useless as a weapon unless I planned to paper cut the intruder to death.
Stupid, useless, disappointing… Tears burned behind my closed lids.
Would my family care if I died? They might be sad at first, but eventually, they’d be relieved that the family’s biggest disappointment was gone. They hadn’t even wanted me. I’d been an accident, a disruption in their long-running plan to only have one child. If I died, they could finally get their plan back on track. If I— A hand grasped my chin and tilted it up. “Stella, look at me.” I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay in my well of denial forever. If I can’t see the monster, it doesn’t exist. But the voice didn’t sound like it belonged to a monster. It sounded deep and velvety and too authoritative for me not to obey. I slowly opened my eyes. Whiskey. Fire. Warmth. My chills skittered away at the banked fury glimmering beneath those dark pools of concern, but Christian’s face softened when our gazes connected. “You’re okay.” Only two words, but they contained such calm reassurance that the dam inside me finally broke. A sob tore from my throat, and moisture spilled past my eyes until his face blurred. I heard a low curse before strong arms engulfed me, and my face pressed against something hard and solid. Immovable, like a mountain in a storm. I curled into Christian’s embrace and let out weeks of stress and anxiety until I ran dry. It wasn’t just the note, though that had been the tipping point. It was D.C.
Style, my family, Delamonte, my social media, and the deep-rooted sense that no matter how hard I tried, I would never live up to the expectations of those around me. That I would always be a disappointment. It was my life. Somewhere along the way, it’d careened so off course I couldn’t even see the main path anymore. I felt like a total failure. Christian didn’t say a word as I sobbed out my frustration on his chest. He just held me until my tears dried enough for mortification to seep into the void left behind by my expelled emotions. “I’m sorry.” I lifted my head and swiped the back of my hand against my damp cheeks.
My mortification deepened when I saw the tear blotches staining his expensive-looking button-down. “I—” I hiccupped. “I ruined your shirt.” Of all the ways I’d pictured the night ending, having a mini meltdown in Christian Harper’s arms wasn’t one of them. He didn’t even glance down.