STELLA/CHRISTIAN
STELLA
Christian Harper had some nerve.
Anger simmered in my stomach as I unlocked my apartment and opened the door with more force than necessary.
It wasn’t an emotion I felt often, and it ate away at my insides like acid.
I didn’t know why I’d reacted so strongly to Christian’s dismissal. I’d heard worse from Meredith and the trolls in my comment sections.
But there was something about the way he did it that clawed under my skin.
One second, I thought he would kiss me. The next, he was kicking me out of his apartment. The man flipped hot and cold more often than a broken faucet.
Worse, there’d been a moment when I’d wanted him to kiss me. When the curiosity over how that firm, sensual mouth would taste pulsed in rhythm to the ache between my thighs.
Frustration twined with my anger.
I didn’t know how he managed to pull so many dormant emotions out of me.
Was it his looks? His wealth? Neither of those things had mattered to me before. I’d met too many rich, good-looking jerks to be suckered in by their false charm.
I set my bag on a nearby table and forced my lungs to expand past the pressure. Confrontation always set me on edge. Even when I wasn’t in the wrong, I felt like I was.
You won’t find me in your apartment again, period.
The memory of my rash declaration erased any calming effect my deep breaths may have had.
I’d “quit” in the heat of the moment. But as stupid as the deal was, I had promised him I would care for his plants in exchange for lower rent.
What if he raised my rent or, worse, evicted me? What if he ended our arrangement? I hadn’t heard from Delamonte yet, but I’d already gained ten thousand followers since I posted the photo of us on our way to the fundraiser.
My account was growing for the first time in a year and ending our arrangement early would kill any momentum I had.
No momentum equaled no growth equaled less money.
Regret kicked my heart palpitations into overdrive.
That was why I’d trained myself to suppress emotional outbursts. The consequences always overshadowed the temporary relief.
I closed my eyes and attempted to return to my deep breathing.
It didn’t work.
Dammit.
I was too tired and jittery for yoga, so I rifled through my bag for my phone. Social media wasn’t the best anxiety-reducing tactic, but it was a great distraction. I just had to stick to my carefully curated YouTube feed of cute animals, styling tips, and hair and makeup tutorials.
Any other app was too much of a minefield to navigate when I was feeling like this.
Lip gloss, moisturizer, cafe receipt…
I paused when my hand brushed a plain white envelope.
I didn’t remember putting that in my bag. I didn’t even own mailing envelopes since I did everything via email these days.
I picked up the envelope and slid a finger under the flap to open it. It was unmarked—no addressee, no return address, no stamp.
A sheet of equally plain white paper was nestled inside.
Foreboding slithered down my spine when I unfolded it. At first, I thought it was blank, but then my eyes focused on the single line of black type at the top.
You were supposed to wait for me, Stella. You didn’t.
No direct threat, but the message was ominous enough to send my dinner rising in my throat.
Ugly memories from two years ago swamped me in a rush.
Candid photos of me in the city—laughing with friends through the window of a restaurant, scrolling through my phone while I waited for the metro, shopping in a boutique in Georgetown. Letters that swung wildly from effusive declarations of love to graphic fantasies of what the sender wanted to do to me.
All sent to my personal home address.
That went on for weeks until I became so paranoid and stressed I couldn’t shower unless Jules was sitting right outside in the living room. Even then, I’d been plagued with nightmares of my stalker storming into my house and hurting her before he came for me.
Then one day, the letters and photos just stopped, like the sender had dropped off the face of the earth. I thought he’d either tired of me or gotten arrested.
But now…
Terror turned my blood into ice.
I was dimly aware that I hadn’t moved since I read the note. I should. I should check the house for intruders and call the police, not that they’d been any help the last time this happened.
But I was paralyzed, frozen with disbelief and the sharp, metallic taste of fear.
It’d been two years since I’d heard from my stalker. Why was he back now? Had he always been there, watching and biding his time? Or had he left, then returned for whatever reason?
And if the note was in my purse…
My breaths rushed out faster. Tiny black dots danced in front of my vision as the implication crystallized.
No stamps and address meant the stalker had gotten close enough to slip the envelope into my bag. He’d been right there. He’d probably touched me.
Invisible spiders crawled over my skin.
I’d cleaned out my bag last night and hadn’t seen the note, so it must’ve happened sometime that day.
My brain cycled through the list of places I’d visited that day.