Page 13 of Whispers of Ruin

“Holy shit, babe. You’re going to drive me insane wearing this.”

I swallow hard, my pulse hammering in my ears. I did not pick that dress and even less the mask. But I know who did. I suddenly feel lightheaded, my fingers curling into my palms as I struggle to keep my expression neutral.

Julian lets out a low whistle, shaking his head.

“I won’t be able to keep my hands off you tonight with this.”

He steps closer, tracing the fabric with his fingertips.

“I swear, you’re trying to kill me. And if I get jealous? That’s on you foxy.”

I smile, nodding, pretending everything is fine. Yet my heart is trying to jump out of my chest. At least Julian doesn’t notice the broken glass on the floor nor the shattered frame with the photo of us now fractured into sharp little pieces.

It is not random, and I know it.

I inspect the dress as Julian steps out of the bedroom to take a shower. It is sumptuous—elegant, seductive—everything I secretly love, but would never dare to wear. Paired with dark red lipstick and my fiery hair, it will be perfect.

But how does he know that? How does a man whose name I do not even recall understand me better than I understand myself? More importantly—what the hell did I do to attract a stalker in the first place?

I am the definition of unremarkable. I read, drink decaf coffee, occasionally go out with my best friend, and have an innocent obsession with orcas. Nothing about me screamstarget.

Without a second thought, I grab my phone, determined to get something out of him.

I wait anxiously while looking at the screen, eager to read the answer.

I don’t know what I expected, but it sure wasn’t this. The audacity, the cockiness radiating from him is beyond anything I could have imagined. It sets my blood boiling so intensely I can barely contain it.

Proud and satisfied with my sharp retort, I toss my phone onto the bed, my pulse racing with anticipation. The moment I hear vibrating again, I spring toward it, a surge of adrenaline flooding through me. I need to see if it had the effect I craved, if my words landed as I intended, lighting whatever spark of frustration I was hoping for.

The words hang in the air like a challenge.

We’ll see about that.

He cannot possibly confront Julian in front of all these people…

I’ll be safe, I reassure myself. I will be shielded by my man, I know I’ll be untouchable—protected, even if it is just for the night.

A limousine pulls up in front of us. I clutch the satin of my dress, careful with each step as I descend the stairs—these black stiletto heels are treacherous, after all. Julian beams beside me, eager to parade me around.

He loves bringing me to these events, knowing I am the kind of woman who draws people in effortlessly. I know how to converse, how to smile at the right moment, how to carry myself with grace—the perfect companion.

I have always taken it as a compliment, the way he proudly shows me off on his arm. Tonight though, something feels off. Tonight, it does not feel like admiration, more like possession. For the first time, I wonder if I have been blind to it all along.

We have about thirty minutes ahead of us. I watch the city blur past the window, trying to steady my breath as the anticipation of the evening creepily settles over me. Julian’s hand lands on my exposed thigh, his fingers pressing gently into my skin. A shiver coils beneath my skin—neither pleasure nor fear, just instinct. Automatic.

There is no denying he looks good. The navy suit, perfectly tailored. The crisp white shirt, undone just enough. He is handsome, undeniably so—masculine, refined, flawlessly put together. He smells expensive, clean, familiar.

And yet… his touch does nothing to me.

I try to convince myself that the recent event is to blame—that what happened left me unsettled, not in the right state of mind for intimacy. Deep down, I know that’s not the truth, because I was not ready yesterday either.

None of it was asked for. None of it was voluntary. So why is it that the mere memory of his hand tightening around my throat sends a pulse of heat between my legs, while the touch of the man who I love—who should be the only one to affect me—feels like absolutely nothing at all?

Julian turns his head, his eyes locking onto me with undeniable hunger. I anticipated this moment the second I realized the gala was a full half-hour drive from the apartment. It is not right—how the simple expectation of being alone with the man who is supposed to be my other half fills me with more dread than excitement.

He runs his fingers through my hair, his voice dripping with sweetness as he murmurs how beautiful I am, how much he misses me. And I miss him too—or at least, I wish I did. More than anything, I miss myself. The version of me that did not feel like she was suffocating in moments like this.

He hands me a shot of vodka from the minibar, and I grasp it, downing it in one gulp.

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