13.
The café door chimed like a lullaby out of tune.
It was early, the sky still bruised with dawn. Rain misted against the windows, fogging them at the corners.
The familiar scent of roasted beans, almond pastries, and old books welcomed her like a memory one that no longer fit.
Isolde stepped inside.
She looked like a ghost returning to the land of the living.
Dressed in a simple ivory blouse and a pleated black skirt that hit just below her knees, she wore her long chestnut hair loose, trailing down her back like silk caught in slow wind.
A pale pink ribbon held it partially back.
Her face was bare, delicate, untouched by makeup but exhaustion lingered in the shadows beneath her eyes, and her lips were pressed too tightly.
She didn't speak as she passed through the café, her shoulders drawn inward like she could make herself smaller.
As if she could fold her fear between the cracks of the tile floor.
Behind the counter, Mira turned at the sound of the bell.
She blinked in surprise, pushing her curls back from her face.
She wore ripped jeans, a cropped red sweater, and thick eyeliner that made her green eyes pop.
"Isolde? Holy sh-sorry. You're-back?"
Isolde gave a small nod. "Just for a few hours. I needed something normal."
Mira hesitated, looking her over with subtle worry. "Are you sure this is a good idea? After... everything?"
"I don't want to talk about it," Isolde whispered. "Please."
Mira bit her lip, but nodded. "Okay. Okay. Here, come in back. You can sort the pastry case. No customers yet."
The storeroom was dim, lit by a flickering overhead bulb.
Isolde moved to the stainless steel counter and began opening the cardboard pastry boxes with mechanical care croissants, pain au chocolat, raisin rolls. Her fingers were pale and trembling.
She had once found comfort in this task.
Now she could only feel watched.
Somewhere in the room, tucked at the base of her spine, was that old, awful awareness again that he might be near. Not seen. Not heard. But there.
Every time she blinked, she imagined opening her eyes to find him standing behind her, lips at her throat.
She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled shakily.
Then her phone buzzed in her pocket.
One message.
From an unknown number.
"You look lovely in that ribbon."
She dropped the croissant she was holding.
The floor tilted beneath her.
Her hand went to her neck, brushing the soft bow of the ribbon.
He was watching. Again.
Meanwhile, across the city Dante Valencourt stood behind tinted glass in the top floor of a quiet café opposite.
Dressed in slate gray slacks, a black open-collar shirt, and a charcoal trench coat tailored to drape like a whisper of death, he sipped from a demitasse with all the leisure of a man who owned time.
He didn't need binoculars.
He had cameras already hidden inside the café. Two near the counter. One above the rear door.
He could see her clearly on his tablet screen.
The way her lips parted in soft panic when she read his message. The way her fingers touched her neck like they already belonged to him.
He smiled faintly.
It wasn't kindness.
It was possession.
He took a sip of espresso. Steam curled around his face. The gold band on his finger glinted as he tapped the screen and queued another message.
Isolde's phone buzzed again.
"Go to your locker."
Her stomach sank.
She hadn't even remembered it still existed.
With trembling hands, she left the pastries and hurried toward the narrow employee locker corridor in the back of the café. Her boots echoed on the tile.
Her fingers fumbled with the old dial lock.
It clicked.
She opened the door.
Inside, hanging on the hook, was a small silver gift bag.
No tag. No wrapping. Just a matte black box resting inside.
Her hands shook as she pulled it out.
The weight of it felt final.
She knew what it was before she even opened it.
The velvet interior cradled a choker midnight black, the sapphire at its center catching the dim light like a drop of frozen blood.
Rose gold embroidery wove along the edge in the shape of thorns.
A note was folded beneath it.
She didn't want to read it.
But she did.
"You wear my gift now, or I send someone else to help you put it on. The choice is yours, ma poupée. But either way it will be yours."
Her pulse stuttered.
Her knees nearly gave out.
She stared at the choker like it might bite her.
And yet...
Her fingers grazed the velvet band. Imagined it tight around her throat.
Not a gift.
A collar.
And the worst part?
Something deep inside her twisted, trembling, shameful-wanted to feel what it was like to wear it.
Across the street, Dante's voice was a breath against glass.
"Put it on, dove. Let the world see what already belongs to me."
He leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out, one hand resting against his jaw. His eyes were glazed with hunger not of lust, but of dominion.
She didn't need chains.
She needed reminders.
Subtle.
Psychological.
Relentless.
Back in the café, Isolde tucked the box back into her bag and stepped out just as the first customer arrived.
The bell jingled.
A man in his fifties with a paper and a gray overcoat. Normal. Ordinary.
But she flinched anyway.
Mira gave her a strange look.
"You okay?"
Isolde smiled.
It didn't reach her eyes.
"Yeah," she lied. "I'm fine."
She didn't see the new camera, hidden behind the fake thermostat above the window.
She didn't know the man who installed it worked for Dante.
And she didn't realize until later that the café was no longer her place of peace.
It was now his.