11.
The sky was gray the morning it all changed.
Rain fell in thin sheets against the windows of the shelter, washing the city in bleak silver.
Isolde sat on the bed, still wrapped in the oversized cardigan she hadn't taken off in days.
Her eyes were hollowed from lack of sleep. Her cheeks, once flushed with innocence, were now pale with quiet terror.
She hadn't cried. Not since the mirror.
She couldn't afford to anymore.
Because someone was always watching.
And she could feel him.
In her veins. In her breath. In the shiver down her spine.
She hadn't told the police about the latest gifts. Not the mirror. Not the pillowcase. Not the messages.
She had tried-once. Her mouth opened, but something choked her. A presence in the air. A weight pressing on her chest like cold fingertips.
She knew if she told, he'd punish her.
And something in her believed... she would deserve it.
Two Hours Later
Detective Marc Renaud stood just outside her door, jaw tight, phone pressed to his ear.
His brow furrowed deeper as he listened, nodding slowly, then ending the call with a soft, "Understood."
He knocked once. "Isolde?"
She stood slowly. "Yes?"
"You need to pack your things. Now."
She blinked. "What? Why?"
"There's been a breach. Someone accessed the shelter's internal files. Every staff member's name. Yours. Your exact room number."
Her heart dropped.
Marc didn't soften his voice. "You're not safe here anymore."
Thirty Minutes Later
Isolde sat in the back of an unmarked police car, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The city blurred past in gray streaks.
She felt watched even now. Like his gaze followed her from street to street.
They were taking her to a safe house.
Different district. New location. New identity, if needed.
But none of that mattered.
Not when he already knew everything.
Three Hours Later
The video surfaced online.
It was posted to three major social media platforms. It had no hashtags. No title. No user.
Just a caption. For her eyes only. But let the world watch.
Marc saw it first.
He burst into the safe house's living room, phone in hand, face pale. "Don't look at it, Isolde."
But it was too late.
She already had.
Her hands trembled around her phone, the screen glowing in front of her as the video loaded.
It was her.
Footage of her walking down the shelter corridor.
Sleeping.
Showering only from the shoulders up, grainy but unmistakable.
Her private life, stolen and exposed.
Marc ripped the phone from her hands. "Jesus Christ-"
"Who... who else has seen it?" she whispered.
"The whole damn city by now."
And beneath the video, a message.
Pinned by the uploader.
"You can put her in another room, in another name, in another city. But she'll never be yours. She was born for me."
-
D.
Marc cursed under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "He wants us to panic. He wants you to feel hunted."
Isolde stared at the screen, her face blank.
"I am hunted," she said.
Across Paris, Dante Valencourt stood in the grand parlor of his estate, watching the chaos unfold on a wall of monitors.
Police agencies scrambled. Journalists speculated. Hashtags erupted.
But none of them knew.
Only she would ever know.
He stared at the live feed of her safe house, the hidden camera installed two hours ago when he paid off the technician during the security sweep.
Isolde sat curled on the couch, wearing an oversized sweater, knees tucked to her chest.
Like a doll someone had forgotten to wind.
Dante tilted his head.
"She needs a new game," he murmured.
That night, she found the box.
It was left on the balcony of the safe house-twelve stories up.
There was no way it could've gotten there unless someone put it there.
Marc had left for a briefing.
The other officer outside smoked too loudly to hear the soft creak of the sliding glass door.
Isolde stared at the box.
It was deep crimson. A black velvet ribbon tied neatly across the center.
And a single white note: For you.
She opened it.
Inside lay the most exquisite dress she'd ever seen.
Black. Silk. Sleek and sheer, with velvet corset lacing up the back. The neckline plunged, edged with embroidered roses. It wasn't just a dress.
The tag inside read: Custom designed. For Isolde. - DV.
She slammed the box shut.
Her hands shook.
She threw it across the room.
But that night, she couldn't sleep.
And at 3:14 a.m., she picked up the dress again.
Held it against her body.
And whispered to no one:
"...Why do I want you to find me?"
Meanwhile, Dante sat in a candlelit room, bare-chested beneath a silk robe, staring at a red string board filled with Polaroids of her.
Every picture was labeled.
Isolde at 8, crying in the schoolyard.
Isolde at 14, asleep on the train.
Isolde, last week, watching the window.
He placed a fresh one at the center.
Tonight's footage: her holding the dress.
"Good girl," he whispered.
Then, into the silence:
"Run, if you must. But know this: when I touch you for the first time, you'll beg me to never stop."