Page 7

That evening, Isolde knelt on her bedroom floor, the gardenia and dove wing arranged like sacred relics.

Her laptop glowed with a search: D.V. Noirhaven.

Nothing.

But her body betrayed her.

She'd replayed his voice (Sweet dreams) until it haunted her showers, her walks, the slow drag of fingers between her legs-

Knock.

Aunt Sylvie's slurred voice barked through the door. "Package!"

A hexagonal box, blood-red, sat on the porch. No return address.

Inside: a corset of black lace and whalebone, its edges stitched with tiny, jagged runes. A note fluttered out.

"Wear this tonight. I'll be watching."

-D.V.

Isolde traced the lace, her breath shallow. It was grotesque. Beautiful.

She unhooked her dress, let it pool at her feet. The corset cinched her waist like a vice, the boning biting her ribs.

In the mirror, a stranger stared back a Victorian wraith, her innocence corseted into something hungry.

Her phone rang. Unknown number.

"Do you ache for me, Isolde?" His voice.Smoke and silk.

She gripped the sink. "Who are you?"

A low chuckle. "The answer to prayers you're too afraid to speak."

The line went dead. Outside her window, a shadow moved a man's silhouette, broad-shouldered, gone in a blink.

Lila arrived unannounced, clutching a taser and a bag of takeout. "You shouldn't be alone," she said, eyeing the corset. "Isolde, take that off. Now."

"He's a predator!" Lila grabbed her shoulders. "This isn't a romance novel!"

Isolde wrenched free. "Maybe I want him to be!"

Silence.

Lila stepped back, tears in her eyes. "Then you're already his."

Dante observed via the corset's hidden camera, the feed split between Isolde's confrontation and Mira's apartment where his men slipped into her vents, armed with fentanyl and a syringe.

"Choose, petit oiseau." Cling to morality, or let your friends die for it.

He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the scars raking his torso a self-portrait in pain.

On his nightstand, a vial of Isolde's stolen tears glimmered. He dipped a finger in, sucked it clean.

Later that night, Isolde lay in bed staring at the ceiling.

She wore a thin white slip removed that corset to sleep, her long hair spilled across her pillow like ink.

Moonlight pooled through the open window. The city whispered outside.

Something rustled.

She sat up.

There, on the balcony table, was a box.

Another gift. She got excited.

But she had locked the door.

She stood slowly, heart pounding.

Her bare feet padded softly over the cold floor. When she opened the balcony door, a gust of night air kissed her skin.

The box was deep violet. Wrapped in lace-black ribbon.

And the note said:

Your friends lie. I'm the only one who sees what you are. A gift to brighten your mood.

-

DV.

Inside was a dress.

Midnight blue. Velvet. The kind of thing no girl with her income could ever afford.

It shimmered in the moonlight, the fabric heavy and opulent.

The neckline dipped too low. The skirt flared with elegance she'd never imagined on her own body.

She touched it with trembling hands.

Should she wear it?

Should she be afraid?

She was.

But beneath the fear, something warmed.

Desire.

The desire to be wanted so deeply, so madly, that someone would move heaven and earth just to watch her.

She clutched the note to her chest.