Page 82 of Brassy Bigwig

“Anyway… your phone was blowing up while you were getting comfortable.”

I pivot before taking a seat on the sofa to grab my purse off of the bar against the wall between the great room and the dining room. Before I collect it, I realize mine and D’s plates are still on the table. Picking them up, I’m stopped by D, who has finished getting dressed.

“I’ll take care of that. Go hang with Shelby.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind helping.”

“I’m fine, go.” D winks at me.

I flash a smile at him before grabbing my purse and walking back to the sofa. Thankfully, I’m already sitting when I pull my phone out, because I’m not prepared for what’s waiting for me. After his letter today, I should have expected it wouldn’t end there, but that doesn’t make this any less terrifying.

212-555-1212: DID YOU GET MY LETTERS CHLOE

212-555-1212: IVE THOUGHT ABOUT YOU IN THAT RED DRESS EVER SINCE I SAW YOU AT THE BAR THE OTHER NIGHT

212-555-1212: DID YOU WEAR IT FOR ME CHLOE

212-555-1212: I CANT WAIT UNTIL WERE ALONE TOGETHER

212-555-1212: THAT BITCH WONT BE ABLE TO INTERRUPT US AGAIN ILL MAKE SURE OF IT

My hands start to shake as I read the messages, causing my phone to clatter to the ground.

“What is it, Chloe?” Shelby inquires from her spot next to me.

D speeds out of the kitchen, presumably from hearing my cell phone connecting with the hard marble floor and the echo of Shelby’s concern bouncing off of the walls of his penthouse.

I take a deep breath as Shelby picks my phone up off of the floor.

“That motherfucker!” she spits, looking at the messages on the screen before handing it over to D.

“What time did he send these?” he wonders.

I see Reed in my peripheral sight climb down from the ladder and join us, worried about what’s happening.

“When you guys were in the other room,” Shelby answers. “It was one right after the other.”

“What’s going on?” Reed questions.

D continues hitting buttons on my phone as Shelby explains to Reed about the letter I received at work today in addition to the text messages. That’s when it hits me.

“Wait a minute,” I state.

Everyone turns their attention toward me.

“He said letters. Plural. Shelby, are you sure I didn’t get anything from him today?”

“I’m positive,” she assures me.

I look up at D then.

“Where is your mailbox?”

“There’s a mailroom in the lobby,” he informs me.

“Get your keys,” I demand, walking to the front door.

D listens to me, and he and I journey down to the lobby to check his mail.

“Mr. Andino,” one of the guys at the security desk nods his head in D’s direction as we pass by.

“Clint,” D acknowledges stiffly.

When we enter the room, thankfully no one else is in there. D opens his box and pulls out the mail for today. Shuffling through several envelopes, he stops when his eyes land on what I was expecting to find. Throwing everything else onto a nearby counter, he tears open the envelope with the same scraggly handwriting that was on the letter back at the office.

There’s no name, only D’s address. I stand next to him as he reads it, scared yet desperately needing to know what it says.

HE WILL NEVER LOVE YOU LIKE I LOVE YOU

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