Page 47 of Pose for Me

Intending to dive back into work, I turn back toward my desk, when my eyes land on the package again. It sits there innocuously, a plain brown cube that could contain anything. A chill runs down my spine as I approach it cautiously, my earlier paranoia creeping back in.

There's nothing on the wrapping, no return address or name to indicate its origin. Could it have been from Tash? Could she have lied? I shake my head, trying to dispel the creeping tendrils of suspicion. Not everyone is out to get me, I remind myself firmly.

I carefully unwrap the package, peeling back the plain brown paper to reveal a nondescript cardboard box beneath. My heart pounds in my chest as I lift the lid, bracing myself for whatever might be inside.

Chapter 29

Rayne

ThefirstthingIsee is a flash of deep burgundy silk. As I gingerly lift the fabric from the box, it unfurls in my hands, revealing itself to be a delicate nightgown. The material is impossibly soft, slipping through my fingers like water. Intricate lace adorns the plunging neckline and hem, a pattern of intertwining roses and thorns that seems both beautiful and menacing.

The nightgown is exquisite, exactly the kind of thing I might have chosen for myself. But perhaps in a different color and pattern. That realization sends a chill down my spine. Whoever sent this knows my tastes.

As I examine the garment, something small and white flutters to the floor. My stomach drops as I bend to retrieve it, instantly recognizing the now-familiar handwriting. The note is written on thick, creamy paper, the ink a deep blood red that stands out starkly against the pale background.

"My dearest Rayne,

This reminded me so much of you, delicate yet strong. I couldn't resist getting it for you. Perhaps you could wear it to bed tonight? I'll be dreaming of you in it, just as I hope you'll dream of me. Soon, my love. Soon we'll be together, and these gifts will pale in comparison to what I have planned for us.

Until then, sweet dreams.

Yours always"

My blood runs cold as I read the words, bile rising in my throat. The intimacy of the gift, the possessive tone of the note–it's all too much. I drop the nightgown as if it's burned me, watching it pool on the floor in a puddle of silk and lace. Like blood.

Without hesitation, I grab the nightgown and shove it back in the box, throwing the note on the side table for Knox to collect. My skin crawls at the mere thought of touching it again, of imagining the stalker's hands on it, picturing me wearing it.

I march purposefully down the stairs, my footsteps echoing loudly in the empty stairwell, through the basement and out through the door next to the entrance to my basement parking. If this person is watching my front door I don’t want them to see this. The afternoon sun is blinding as I push open the door, heading straight for the dumpster where I'd discarded the roses just days ago.

The metal lid creaks loudly as I lift it, the stench of rotting garbage assaulting my nostrils. Without ceremony, I hurl the box into the depths of the dumpster, hearing it land with a satisfying thud among the other refuse.

Anger washes over me. How dare they? How dare this person invade my life, my space, with these unwanted "gifts" and messages? "Fuck you," I spit out, my voice shaking with anger. "Fuck you and your sick games."

I slam the lid shut with enough force to make the entire dumpster rattle, as if I could somehow contain the threat, lock away the fear and disgust roiling inside me. But even as I turn to head back inside, I know it's not that simple. The stalker is still out there, watching, waiting. And no amount of discarded "gifts" will change that chilling reality.

As I calmly move back inside, I take several deep breaths, feeling the tension slowly drain from my body. The cool air of the studio washes over me, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat outside. I won't let this person have the satisfaction of rattling me. I am stronger than them.

At my desk, I sink into the familiar embrace of my chair. The leather is soft and worn in all the right places, molding to my body like a second skin. I take a moment to roll my oil roller on my wrist, taking another deep breath to inhale the calming scent.

My phone sits where I left it, screen dark and innocuous. With steady hands, I pick it up, unlocking it with a swipe of my thumb. The background image—a picture of Luna—fills the screen momentarily before I open my messaging app.

Selecting Knox’s name, my fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment as I consider my words carefully. I don't want to worry him unnecessarily, but I know he needs to be informed.

Hey Knox, I received another package today. I've left the note for you on the side table. If you want the 'gift' itself, you'll have to fish it out of the dumpster behind the studio. I couldn't stand to keep it in the building.

I hit send and wait, watching as the message status changes from "Delivered" to "Read" almost immediately. The three dots indicating Knox is typing appear, then disappear, then reappear. Finally, his response comes through:

Are you okay? We aren’t far if you need us to come by now.

The concern in his message is palpable, even through the impersonal medium of text. A warmth blooms in my chest at his concern, a flicker of something I'm not quite ready to name. I stare at Knox's message, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. A part of me longs to accept his offer, to have him and River rush to my side, to feel safe in their protective embrace. But I can't. I can't let myself become dependent on them, can't risk opening myself up only to have them inevitably grow tired of me.

I'm fine, I type back, keeping my tone light and casual.No need to worry. We can talk about it later. I've got a lot of work to catch up on right now.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then set my phone face-down on the desk. Out of sight, out of mind.

Taking a deep breath, I turn my attention to my computer screen. The familiar interface of my social media management tool greets me, a blank canvas waiting to be filled with carefully curated content. I throw myself into the task, losing myself in the minutiae of scheduling posts, crafting captions, and selecting the perfect images to showcase my work.

Time slips by unnoticed as I work, and when I run out of things to distract myself with, I sigh. It's late enough that I could easily shut down and go upstairs, spend time with Luna and ignore it for yet another day, but something has me clicking my way into the folder on my storage drive.

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