Page 173 of Their Arrangement
Top left corner of the frame warped just slightly—enough that if I press with two fingers and lift, the latch clicks free.
The building’s cameras won’t catch me.
I had them redirected the night she first smiled at Loyal like she didn’t know what it meant. It’s not the first time I’ve been here. She doesn’t know that. She doesn’t know I’ve counted the steps between her bed and the bathroom. That I know how she folds her towels—wrong, always. That the ones she hides in the back are softer. More worn.
Her apartment smells like her skin.
Lavender soap.
Linen.
Something sweeter.
Faint. Like a secret only I know.
It hits me the second I step inside. Settles into my chest. Makes me walk slower. I don’t touch much. Not because I couldn’t.
But because I don’t need to anymore. She’s already mine. She just hasn’t said it out loud. I walk through the kitchen. Check the drawers.
There’s a black box of tea she hides behind the coffee. The cheap kind. The kind she drinks only when she’s overwhelmed. It’s half empty. The second drawer in her dresser is open a crack.
That’s where I slide the ring box. Black velvet. Folded. Simple. The garnet is cold when I place it inside. It catches the light like a heartbeat cut from stone. I don’t leave a note. But I think about it. I think about writing:
This is yours. But you wear it for me.
I don’t. She’ll know.
I walk to the side table beside her bed.
There’s a book she’s only halfway through.
The bookmark is a torn receipt. The last chapter she read is underlined in pencil—something about secrets and survival. I don’t read further. Because she doesn’t survive this. She doesn’t survive me.
The curtains are half drawn. She always leaves them that way. Like she’s daring the night to watch. Like she wants to be seen. I don’t need permission. I run my hand along the headboard. Not because I’m imagining her bent there. I’ve seen that. I’ve made her feel it. What I’m imagining now? Is her asleep here. Wearing the ring.
Wearing nothing else.
I fix the latch on the window before I leave. Let her believe she’s safe. Let her believe she’s alone. Let her dream she’s in control. She’ll find the ring in the morning. Slip it on with trembling fingers. And when she does? She won’t take it off.
I don’t sleep well. Haven’t in years. Not since Camille. Not since Selene smiled like she meant it and took everything we gave her straight to a lawyer.
Not since I started watching Cloe breathe through a four-panel feed like it was the only prayer I still remembered the words to.
She doesn’t know what I’ve done for her.
How many threats I’ve intercepted before she ever stepped into this building. How many men I’ve paid off. How many names I’ve erased. How many lines I’ve crossed. And I don’t want her to know.
Not yet. Because the moment she finds out she’s not just protected—but caged?
She’ll hate me.
And I’ll let her.
So long as she keeps wearing the ring.
11:34 p.m.
Her building lights dim.
