Chapter 3 #2
Harper was laughing beside me, oblivious. “Oh, my God, that couple is about to fall off the barstool—”
My phone buzzed again: Happy New Year. You’re going north.
A third vibration followed before I could breathe: Don’t argue. Don’t ask questions. Check your email at 9 a.m.
I stared at the screen, fireworks reflecting off it like sparks.
My heart hammered so hard I felt it in my throat.
This wasn’t possible.
It shouldn’t be real.
There were rules. In my head, there were always rules. Boundaries. Ethics. Lines you didn’t cross.
But the letter had been a line.
And someone—somewhere—had crossed it back.
I forced myself to look up. Forced my face into neutral. Forced my body not to react like it wanted to kneel.
Harper saw my expression and sobered instantly.
“What?” she asked. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I lied, because lying was safer than truth.
Harper squinted. “That didn’t sound like nothing.”
I slid my phone back into my pocket like I could hide it from her and from myself. “Work,” I said quickly. “Just … work.”
Harper rolled her eyes. “Of course, it is.”
But her gaze lingered on me. Knowing. Not convinced.
“Come on,” she said, softening. “Let’s go home. It’s cold.”
Cold.
The word hit wrong. Like a warning.
Like a promise.
I nodded. Let her link her arm through mine as we moved toward the elevator with the crowd.
My phone stayed silent after that, but my body didn’t.
It pulsed with adrenaline and dread and something that felt too much like arousal.
The predator had finally spoken.
And he wasn’t coming to Charleston.
He was moving me.
That night, I lay in bed staring at my ceiling fan, the same slow, soft spin as always, but my body felt like it belonged to someone else now—wired, alert, sensitized.
I replayed the messages until the words lost meaning.
Lady.
You’re going north.
Don’t argue.
As if he already knew.
As if he’d already decided.
At 8:58 a.m., I sat at my kitchen island with coffee I couldn’t taste, my laptop open, my hair damp from a shower I’d taken purely to feel something normal.
My inbox refreshed.
A new email appeared at the top.
From an address I didn’t recognize.
No logo. No signature.
Just a subject line that made my stomach drop:
Speaking Invitation: Hudson Summit on Violence Prevention (CONFIDENTIAL)
My hands went cold as I clicked.
The email was … immaculate.
Professional. Legitimate. Specific. It referenced my work—my recent keynote, a policy memo I’d written, a grant initiative I’d spearheaded last spring. It praised my “measured expertise” and asked if I could keynote a closed-door summit in upstate New York on January 3.
Two days away.
All travel covered.
Car service arranged.
Accommodations booked.
It was the kind of invitation people waited years for.
It was also the kind of invitation that didn’t just happen.
My pulse thudded. I scrolled. Read it again.
Hudson Summit.
Upstate New York.
I had a connection there—one I hadn’t thought about in years.
My mother’s sister, Aunt Mabel, still lived outside Saratoga, in a house that always smelled like cedar and old books.
I’d spent childhood summers there, running through snowbanks that made Charleston winter feel like a joke.
I’d gone to college in New York for a year before transferring south.
I’d learned how to walk fast in cold cities and how to keep my face blank when men looked at you like they owned your time.
I’d always told myself I didn’t miss it.
But something about seeing New York on the screen made my chest tighten with the strange familiarity of returning to a place that once made you someone else.
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
You’ll accept.
My mouth went dry.
Wear something warm. I like you in ivory.
I stared at that last line so long my vision blurred.
Because it wasn’t just control.
It wasn’t just logistics.
It was intimacy through distance.
The unsettling certainty of a man who had been paying attention—close enough to know what I wore, close enough to imagine me in it.
Close enough to want me in it.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
All I had to do was delete the email.
Pretend none of this was real.
Return to the safety of my controlled life.
But the truth pressed up inside me, hot and undeniable:
I had written the letter because I wanted consequences.
Not in theory.
In my body.
In my bones.
And now a hunter—somewhere beyond Charleston’s soft winter—was arranging a path for me like he’d already wrapped a leash around my throat.
My breath came shallow.
I typed a response before I could lose nerve.
Thank you for the invitation. I’m honored. I can attend.
I hit send.
The second it left, my phone buzzed one more time.
Good girl. Pack tonight. I’ll tell you when to leave.
I dropped my phone on the counter like it burned.
Then I sat there, staring at the quiet, sunlit condo that suddenly felt too small for the woman I’d just become.
Because the moment I accepted, I understood something I hadn’t been ready to admit:
This wasn’t a fantasy anymore.
It was a trail.
And I had just stepped onto it.
And somewhere in upstate New York, a dangerous man was waiting.