Page 11 of Trained In Sin

Saphy

The first thing I notice when I arrive at the office is the flowers.

A stunning arrangement of white lilies sits on my desk in a crystal vase.

Elegant, expensive, and looking completely out of place.

The blooms are perfect, their petals pristine, arranged with the kind of precision that speaks of serious money.

There's only one person I have the misfortune of knowing, who could afford something like this.

"Someone's got a secret admirer," Miranda calls from her desk, her voice carrying the tone that means she's fishing for gossip.

I force a smile, though my stomach churns. "Must be a mistake. I'll call reception and have them moved."

But even as I say it, I know it's not a mistake. The flowers are addressed correctly, a small white tag tucked among the stems reads "S. Jenkins, Acquisitions." Someone wanted to make sure I knew they were specifically for me.

My hands shake slightly as I get through to reception.

"Hi, it's Saphy from acquisitions. There's been a flower delivery to my desk, but I think there's been a mistake…."

"Oh no, no mistake," the cheerful receptionist interrupts.

"The florist delivered them personally this morning.

Lovely lady, very professional. Said she had specific instructions about the arrangement and placement.

Had to deliver them herself rather than using a driver, apparently.

Very particular about making sure they reached the right desk in the right department. "

The phone feels slippery in my grip. "Did she say who they’re from?"

"I'm afraid not. Just said you'd know who sent them." She pauses. "Is everything all right, love? You sound a bit upset."

"No, everything's fine. Thank you." I hang up before she can ask any more questions.

I stare at the lilies, their pristine white petals suddenly looking more ominous than beautiful. The message is clear: I can reach you anywhere. Your workplace isn't safe. Nowhere is safe.

I grab the vase and march to the small kitchen area, dumping the flowers unceremoniously into the bin. Several colleagues look up, surprised.

"Allergies," I mumble, avoiding their stares.

Back at my desk, I try to focus on work, but concentration is impossible. Every footstep in the hallway makes me look up. Every delivery person becomes a potential threat. The elevator dings regularly throughout the morning, and each time I tense, wondering if he's here.

Around ten-thirty, a security guard I don't recognise walks through our floor.

He's older than our usual guards, with greying hair and a slight limp, but he wears the same uniform and carries the same clipboard.

He moves methodically through the office, checking locks on unused rooms, testing the photocopier, making notes.

"Excuse me," I call out when he approaches my section. "I don't think we've met. Are you new?"

He looks up with a friendly smile. "Just covering for Dave while he's on holiday.

Routine security check, nothing to worry about.

" His eyes linger on my desk, taking in the nameplate, the computer setup, the personal photos I keep near my monitor.

"You must be Sapphire Jenkins. Heard you've been having some. .. unusual visitors lately."

My blood runs cold. "I'm sorry, what?"

"The flower delivery this morning," he clarifies, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Reception mentioned it caused quite a stir. Beautiful arrangement, from what I heard. Someone clearly thinks very highly of you."

Before I can respond, he's moved on, continuing his rounds with that same precision. But I notice he spends more time near my desk than anywhere else, checking the windows behind me twice, testing the handle on the storage room door that's directly across from where I sit.

I try calling security to verify his identity, but the line rings busy.

When I finally get through twenty minutes later, they confirm that yes, they do have temporary coverage for Dave's holiday.

"Nice chap," the supervisor says. "Very thorough.

Been doing this work for years. Excellent references the agency said. "

But something about him sits wrong with me. The way he seemed to already know who I am. The casual mention of the flowers. The excessive attention he paid to my immediate area.

By lunchtime, I'm a nervous wreck. I skip my usual coffee run, too afraid to leave the building, too afraid to stay. Everything feels compromised, tainted by his presence. Even sitting at my own desk feels like being on display.

Then, around two o'clock, another delivery arrives .

This time it's not flowers. A courier appears at my desk with a small, elegantly wrapped package. No return address, just my name written in the same precise handwriting that was on the flower card.

"Saphire Jenkins?" The courier checks his clipboard. I nod, dreading where this is going. "Got a special delivery for you. Sender requested hand delivery only, no leaving with reception. Can you sign here please?"

My heart pounds as I sign for the package. It's small, about the size of a jewellery box, wrapped in expensive black paper with a silver ribbon.

"Any idea who sent it?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

The courier shrugs. "Paid extra for discretion. All I know is the guy was very specific about it reaching you, and only you."

After he leaves, I sit staring at the package for ten minutes. Opening it feels like crossing a line, acknowledging his pursuit in a way that refusing dinner didn't. But not opening it feels worse, leaving me to imagine what message he's trying to send.

Finally, I tear open the wrapping paper.

Inside is a first edition copy of Jane Eyre, the same book I have on my bedside cabinet. Only, my one is slightly battered, and this one is clearly vintage, probably worth more than I make in a month. The leather binding is pristine, the pages cream coloured with age.

There's no note, but there doesn't need to be. The message is unmistakable: It was me in your home. I’m paying attention. I know you .

The intimacy of it makes my skin crawl. What I’d written off as paranoia, was clearly him. In my home. In my bedroom.

I flip through the pages, checking for notes or markings, but find none.

"Another delivery?" Miranda appears at my elbow, eyeing the book with obvious curiosity. "That's gorgeous. First edition?"

"Looks like it." I close the book quickly, not wanting her to see. To ask further questions that I really don’t want to answer.

"Someone's really pulling out all the stops.” She settles onto the edge of my desk, clearly settling in for gossip.

"Something like that." I slide the book into my desk drawer, out of sight.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a haze of hypervigilance.

Every phone call feels monitored. Every email seems to take too long to send, as if someone else is reading them first. The temporary security guard makes two more passes through our floor, each time finding reasons to linger near my workspace.

Around four o'clock, I finally crack and call Beth.

"He sent me flowers and a book," I say without preamble when she answers.

"What? Who?"

"Blackwood. To my office. A delivery guy brought them directly to my desk." I keep my voice low, suddenly paranoid about who might be listening.

"Shit. What kind of flowers? "

"White lilies. And the book is a first edition Jane Eyre. It’s the same book I have on my bedside table.”

Beth is quiet for a moment. "That's... actually quite romantic, if it wasn't completely terrifying."

"It's not romantic, it's stalking."

"I know, I know. I'm just saying, the man has excellent taste.” She pauses. "Have you told Damon?"

"Not yet. He'll want to do something stupid, like confront Blackwood or go to the police."

"Maybe that's not such a bad idea…."

"It is a bad idea. You said it yourself. This man is dangerous. I don't want Damon anywhere near him."

“Saphy, I get that, but you can’t just do nothing.”

“I know that. What I don’t know is what I’m actually supposed to do next.”

“Wanna come round after work?”

“No it’s OK, I just want to barricade myself in my flat and binge watch TV.”

“If you’re sure? I’m here if you need me.”

After we hang up, I spend the last hour of the workday jumping at shadows.

Every delivery person becomes suspicious.

Every maintenance worker could be watching me.

The temporary security guard makes one final round, and I swear he slows down as he passes my desk, his eyes lingering on the drawer where I've hidden the book .

When five o'clock finally arrives, I pack up quickly, desperate to escape the suffocating feeling of being observed. But as I wait for the lift, I realise leaving doesn't solve anything. If he can reach me here, in my supposedly secure workplace, then nowhere is truly safe.

The lift doors open, and for a heart stopping moment, I expect to see him standing inside. But it's just Oliver from accounting, looking tired and ready for the weekend.

As we descend, I catch my reflection in the polished steel doors. I look haunted, jumpy and washed out. I can’t believe a few days ago, I’d been slightly flattered by all of this.

The lobby is busy with end of day foot traffic, but I scan every face anyway, looking for familiar features or watching eyes. Nothing obvious stands out, but that doesn't mean anything. He's proven he doesn't need to be visible to make his presence felt.

Outside, the early evening air does nothing to calm my nerves. I walk quickly toward the tube station, resisting the urge to look over my shoulder every few steps. But I can feel it again, that sensation of being watched.

On the underground, I deliberately choose a seat where I can see the entire car. A businessman reads his paper. A woman texts on her phone. Students chat about weekend plans. All perfectly normal, perfectly innocent.

But I can't shake the feeling that somewhere in this crowd, or in the next car, or watching from the platform, he has eyes on me.

By the time I reach my stop, I'm practically running.

The walk home feels endless, every shadow potentially hiding a threat.

When I finally reach my building, I fumble with my keys, dropping them twice before managing to unlock the door.

Inside my flat, I immediately check the locks, draw the curtains, and methodically check every room. Only when I’m content everything is as I left it, I pour myself a large glass of wine. Only then do I allow myself to think about what today really means.

He's escalating. The flowers, the book, the security guard who knew too much. I’m worried that the message I sent, made it worse.

I take a sip of wine and try not to think about the answer. But deep down, I already know. This is just the beginning. Tomorrow, he'll find new ways to remind me that saying no to Sebastian Blackwood was never really an option.

The white lilies may be in the bin, but their message isn’t. He's watching and he isn’t prepared to take no for an answer.