Takes place several weeks before Vicious…
Completed short story. Content notes apply only to this part.
“Oh, May,” Veronica whispers as I pass by her cubicle. “You have the best boyfriend.”
I blink at her, confused because a, I don’t have a boyfriend, and b, I don’t know why she’d think I do. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I tell her, pushing past her to get to my desk.
The second I get to my own cubicle, though, I can see why she’d think I do.
A dozen red roses in a crystal vase have been set carefully in front of my keyboard, wrapped in a crimson silver ribbon with a small card attached to it.
Shit.
No. I don’t have a boyfriend, but I do have a not-so-secret, not-so-subtle stalker who has been slowly ramping up his attempts to get my attention over the last several weeks.
Usually, he has the gifts sent to my house — a pair of expensive slip-proof shoes for my catering job, a canister of Chinese tea leaves, a top of the line cell phone when my own had shattered… So many presents, and all of them have been frighteningly personal.
And thoughtful, though I try to ignore that.
I wish he was giving me things that I could sell to pay for groceries or rent, but I can’t deny that these things are all just as valuable — only, they’re just valuable to me and not anyone else.
That’s one of the reasons I haven’t gone to the police about my stalker. They’d only say that I have a secret admirer who’s probably shy, who’s probably just trying to get the courage to ask me out.
The main reason, though, is that if I tried to tell them that Chase Vicious, one of New Bristol’s premier lawyers and wealthiest eligible bachelors, is stalking me, they’d laugh me out of the building.
Even my own father thinks I should take Chase up on his offers of a date, but he doesn’t know the truth.
Baba wasn’t there when Chase had cornered me, when he’d pinned me against the wall and kissed me, when he’d uttered one of my biggest secrets aloud and tried to leverage it against me.
He doesn’t know.
He can’t know.
Part of me wonders whether he’d see it for the real threat it is; as a public defender, he knows how fast stalking can escalate. But the other part of me is more cynical, and I can’t help but think he might see it as a way to ensure he has a steady flow of cash to pour into his addictions.
It’s not a fair thought, and I know it’s not.
“Such pretty flowers,” another of my coworkers says as she passes by. “I wish my husband still sent me gifts.”
Yeah, well, I wish Chase would stop sending them to me.
I make a noncommittal sound, going to clock in before anyone else can try to talk to me about the vase of flowers. I shove it into the corner of my cubicle, trying to put it out of sight and out of mind, but it’s still there. It’s still taunting me.
I glare at it, taking in the sight of the pretty flowers and the pretty ribbon and the pretty vase, and I yank at the card.
It’s blank.
I make a disgusted noise and grab the roses by their blooms.
Too late, I realize that the roses haven’t been de-thorned, and several long, spiky thorns dig into my hand. I yelp, dropping them, and I watch as droplets of blood form on my hand and slowly plop onto my desk.
Shit.
I grab them again, more carefully this time even though the urge to squeeze them more tightly is there, ever-present in the forefront of my mind no matter how hard I try to ignore it, and dump them into the trash.
I can probably pawn the vase for a few dollars if it’s real crystal — and knowing Chase, it probably is.
He doesn’t do anything by halves.
I fumble with the box of tissues at my desk, wrapping my hand and staring intently at the red blossoming against the thin white sheets. It feels good, and I can’t help but wonder if he planned this as meticulously as he planned everything else.
Because I don’t think he sent me roses after all.
No.
I think he sent me thorns.
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