3.
Next day.
The cafe hummed with the clatter of porcelain and the murmur of the cuatomers.
Behind the counter, Isolde moved like a ghost, her knee-length brown hair braided into a heavy rope that swayed as she poured lattes.
Her eyes wide, doe-like, darted nervously when a courier entered, holding a sleek black box tied with a blood-red ribbon.
"Isolde Winslow?" the courier barked. All chatter died.
She froze, her fingers tightening around a saucer. "Y-Yes?"
The man thrust the box at her. "Sign here."
The package was cold, unnervingly heavy. Her name glinted on the lid in silver foil. Beneath it, a note: "For the girl with starlight in her hair." -Your secret admirer.
Another gift.....why?
A collective gasp rippled through the café. Her coworker, Mira, leaned in, her perfume cloying. "Open it!"
Isolde's hands trembled.
The ribbon slithered to the floor. Inside, nestled in black velvet, lay a choker obsidian diamonds , its clasp a tiny, twisted lock. The stones swallowed the light, sinister in their beauty.
"Holy shit," Mira breathed. "Those are real!"
Elara recoiled. "I can't... This is a mistake."
But the courier was already gone.
Three blocks away, in a penthouse that crowned the city like a barbed crown, Dante watched her through a live feed on his monitor.
Leaning back in his leather throne, he traced the screen where Isolde's face filled the frame her full lips parted in shock, the delicate flutter of her pulse at her throat.
His mouth curved, a predator soothed by the quickening heartbeat of prey.
Perfect.
He'd had her followed for a very long time.
Knew her routine the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when nervous, the charity she volunteered at on Sundays, the ragged copy of Wuthering Heights she read during breaks, her fingertips brushing the pages like a penitent's prayer.
She was a flame in a world of evil. And he'd let her burn bright... until he chose to smother her.
Onscreen, Isolde shoved the box under the counter, her cheeks flushed.
Dante zoomed in, capturing the way her lashes unnaturally long, a sweep of midnight cast shadows on her cheeks. Innocent.
The word tasted like lies. No one was innocent. Not even this trembling fawn.
His phone buzzed. A message from his lieutenant: Leclerc's body dumped in the bay. Police bought the overdose story.
Dante didn't reply. His attention belonged to the screen, to her. He'd slaughtered men for lesser distractions.
Isolde hid in the staff bathroom, the choker clenched in her fist.
The diamonds bit into her palm. "Who?" She had no friends, no family but Aunt Sylvie, who'd sooner sell a gift than gawk at it.
Her reflection stared back pale, ethereal, a thing meant for fairy tales, not the grease-stained apron hanging from her neck.
The door creaked. Mira barged in, smirking. "Rich boyfriend you forgot to mention?"
"No! I don't know who sent it."
"Keep playing modest." Mira's smile turned knife-sharp. "But that collar's worth more than this shitty café. Better lock it on before they change their mind."
Alone again, Isolde lifted the choker.
The lock clicked open with a whisper. Against her better judgment, she fastened it.
The metal was shockingly warm, the diamonds resting against her throat like a lover's fingertips.
She ripped it off, gasping.
Dante's grin widened.
The necklace was no mere trinket. Wired with micro-surveillance, its diamonds hollowed to hold a neurotoxin potent enough to paralyze.
A leash, disguised as a gift.
He zoomed in on Isolde's throat, the faint red mark left by the clasp.
His fingers twitched, craving to press into the bruise, to feel her pulse race under his grip. She thought herself invisible, a shadow in a city of spotlights. But he'd always seen her.
The choker's feed flickered to life on his desk monitor. Through it, he watched her stumble back to the counter, her posture taut as a bowstring. Every whisper from customers made her flinch. Every man's glance tightened her jaw.
Good. Let her fear. Let her wonder.
Dante poured himself a glass of bourbon.
On the wall behind him hung a painting a raven pecking out a dove's eyes.
Art, he'd found, was truth dressed in prettiness.
His phone rang. A contact labeled CARTEL flashed. He silenced it.
Isolde's shift ended at sunset. Dante watched her fold her apron, slip out the back alley.
She paused, clutching the necklace box to her chest like a shield. A black town car idled at the curb.
His car.
She hesitated, then hurried past, head down. Dante's laugh was a low rumble. "Run, little doe." He'd enjoy the chase.
That night, Isolde lay in her cramped attic bedroom, the choker hidden under her mattress.
Aunt Sylvie's snores rattled through the thin walls. Rain lashed the windows as she opened her laptop.
But her inbox had a new email. Unknown sender. Subject line: "You looked exquisite today."
Her breath hitched. The message held no text-just a photo. Her, in the café, hair half-lit by afternoon sun, the choker glinting in her hands.
Panic spiked. She slammed the laptop shut.
Across the city, Dante sipped his bourbon, her terror a drug in his veins.
On his screen, the live feed showed her huddled under blankets, her face lit by the dim glow of her phone.
He zoomed in, capturing the tear clinging to her lash.
He had set secret cameras in her home without them knowing in the disguised of plumber months ago.