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“You have a delivery,” she says, her voice flat, like she couldn’t care less.
I sit up, blinking. “I didn’t order anything.”
She shrugs. “Not my problem.” And with that, she turns and walks off, disappearing into her own room.
I frown, getting up and padding barefoot into the living room, where a large black box with a ribbon sits at the door.
It’s elegant. Expensive-looking.
And definitely not something I ordered.
Curious, I sign for the package, thank the delivery guy, and haul it inside, placing it on my bed.
I hesitate for a moment before finally untying the ribbon and lifting the lid.
A dress.
And not just any dress.
A gown.
Deep blood red, silky and smooth, with delicate beading along the bodice. It looks like it was made for royalty, not a girl barely surviving New York on an entry-level salary.
My heart pounds as I run my fingers over the fabric, my stomach twisting with something nervous, excited, terrified.
Who sent this?
As if on cue, my phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: Did you get the dress?
A lump lodges in my throat.
I swallow hard, quickly typing back.
Me: How do you know my address?
My screen lights up with his response almost instantly.
Unknown Number: Your employee records.
I stare at the message, my fingers tightening around my phone.
What.
The.
Hell.
Me: That’s messed up.
Unknown Number: Nothing is over the line when it comes to you.
A shiver runs down my spine.
Not from fear.
From something else, something I don’t want to name.