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27

Lena

I step out of the shower, towel half-wrapped around me, skin still wet, nerves still buzzing. It’s late, but I’m wide awake—strung tight and twitchy, with a gnawing feeling I can’t place.

I walk back into the living room, my damp hair clinging to my shoulders. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone, that someone is inside my apartment.

Of course, that’s ridiculous.

Everything’s exactly how I left it. Keys in the bowl. Shoes by the door. Couch still indented from where I collapsed last night.

Still, something feels… different. Warmer. Stilled.

I towel off my hair, then freeze.

There’s a box on the counter.

Not wrapped. Not labeled. Just there. Sitting in the center of my kitchen island like it belongs.

I didn’t order anything.

A knot forms in my throat, thick and stubborn, like I’m choking on something I can’t swallow. I don’t move for a second. I just stare at it. Matte black, the size of a shoebox. Minimalist. Sleek. Expensive. Like it doesn’t belong in this apartment. Like it doesn’t belong in my life.

I can’t help myself. I lift the lid.

Inside, resting against a bed of black silk, is a single stiletto. Black. Designer. The kind of shoe I’ve only seen in high-end magazines, behind glass, or on people who aren’t me.

There’s a card beneath it. Clean, printed, impersonal.

But the phrasing is unmistakable.

A folded card. No flourish. No sweetness. Just a statement.

Harder to run in these…

- E

I exhale, breath catching somewhere between a laugh and a shiver.

It’s not just the gift.

It’s the assumption.

That I’ll wear it. That I’ll understand what it means.

That I’m already playing.

And the worst part?

He’s not wrong.

I pick up the shoe. It’s absurdly light, a delicate weapon in my hand. Stupidly beautiful, yes, but the kind of beauty that feels dangerous. A blade disguised as an accessory.

The other one’s missing.

Of course it is.

I turn the box over. No label. No receipt. No return address. Just the message and the promise buried in it.

Then—

A knock at the door.

Not loud. Not frantic. Just two quick raps, polite almost.

I don’t open it immediately. It takes a half-hour to work up the courage, and then it’s only because I hear my neighbors in the hall.

But resting against the doorframe, where a package would go, is the second shoe.

Same black box. Same silk interior.

No note this time.

No need.

I bring it inside, hands trembling now. I feel it in my back—something tightens between my shoulder blades, sharp and stiff, as if my spine itself is bracing for something, pulling me taut like the strings of a bow. I sit on the couch, shoes in my lap, note beside me. My heart thuds hard in my chest, but I haven’t moved.

A new email flashes on my phone.

From: Ellis Harrison

Subject: Tomorrow

You’ll need somewhere to wear the shoes. Dinner. 8PM.

No running required. I’ll send a car.

No question mark.

No RSVP.

Just a time. A place. A decision already made.

I stare at the screen. Then at the shoes. Then back again.

My pulse beats in my temple, a quick, insistent throb that drowns out everything else, like a ticking clock counting down something I’m not ready for.

The pressure grows behind my eyes, sharp, insistent.

And I know—this isn’t about footwear.

It’s a choice.

I could say no.

But then, I really like the shoes.

And the paycheck? Not bad either.

The worst part isn’t that I might go.

It’s that I already know what I’m going to wear—and I hate myself for it.