Chapter 11
GAbrIELA
I wake up blissfully rested, sore, and a little sad when I see Eros’s side of the bed is empty. It’s stupid to feel that way, because he told me he’d stay the night, but he’d be gone by morning. I don’t have a point of reference, but I’m pretty sure this is how casual is supposed to work.
Except, last night didn’t feel casual. It was everything I once imagined sharing with Romeo.
I told Eros he wasn’t a placeholder, and I meant it. But the only face I could imagine as he sank into me was the one I couldn’t seem to forget.
Afterward, guilt crept in, and I felt like I was betraying them both somehow. It left me even more conflicted, but I tried to push it from my thoughts as he took care of me. We lay in the tub together until I nearly fell asleep on him, then he dried me off and carried me back to bed.
Wrapped in the warmth of his body, his arm anchored around my waist, I drifted off.
It’s slightly disturbing how relaxed I am with him. I don’t even like to let other people hug me, but in his arms, my mind goes quiet, and the tension dissolves.
It’s like my body recognizes something familiar in him. Something safe.
Perhaps a little too safe.
A paranoid thought enters my mind that the reason I feel so comfortable is because I already know him.
I found it odd that he seemed more interested in my past heartbreak than my current engagement. He asked nothing about Riccardo, but knowing his tendencies, there’s a chance he already knew about him. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t bothered by it.
When I roll over to grab my phone, I notice a gift box on the nightstand. There’s a card attached to the top, and a separate folded note waiting for me.
I peek inside the box and find a display of chocolate-covered cherries, and I can’t help but smile when I read his note.
Since I took yours last night.
R.I.P. Virginity
He has the kind of humor that makes you question whether or not it’s appropriate to laugh. And not in the is this actually a joke? kind of way. It’s more like, am I deranged for being amused by this?
I’m tempted to text him right now, but I want to see what’s in the card first. It’s a matte black envelope with a gold seal on the back. It feels a little mysterious, and when I peel it open, I understand why.
You are cordially invited to a night of sinful delights at Davenport Manor After Dark.
Masks required. Misbehavior encouraged.
Arrive at midnight and step into a world of thrills and chills.
Claim Signals: Venator/Praeda
I stare at the gold-foiled letters, then flip it over to find the list of rules and expectations for the event. All at once, I’m hit by two realizations.
This means he has to be a member of The Society. That’s the only way he could get an invitation.
It also feels a little too coincidental that I only recently told the girls I wanted to go. But that conversation took place in a conference room, so I don’t know how he could have possibly known about it.
Then again, we’ve talked at length about the things I want to try. I’ve sent him scenes from books that leaned heavily into fear and primal play, and he knows about my love for carnivals. These aren’t exactly secrets. But even if they were, I suspect he would have uncovered them anyway.
His stalking skills are slightly terrifying, but I can’t deny there’s also something weirdly addictive about him being so invested in my life.
My phone chimes, and I’m not surprised to see it’s him. He seems to have memorized my routine—right down to the time I wake up. My sleep schedule runs late, which is why I take afternoon classes and work at night when I function best.
Eros415: Good afternoon, little shark.
BiteSizedGabi: Good afternoon
Eros415: Is your pussy still sore?
My body responds to the memory of him inside me. There’s no question I still feel him.
BiteSizedGabi: Yes.
Eros415: Want me to come kiss it better?
BiteSizedGabi: Also yes.
Eros415: Just as I suspected. You’ve been corrupted.
BiteSizedGabi: How do you know I’m not the one who corrupted you?
Eros415: That would imply that I was good once. Not likely.
BiteSizedGabi: I’ll have to take your word for it. Thank you for the cherries…and the invitation.
Eros415: Is that a yes, then?
BiteSizedGabi: Enthusiastic yes.
Eros415: Devil emoji. I left something for you in the fridge. Beppe has already had his breakfast (though he’ll tell you otherwise) and a walk.
I glance at the snoring Chihuahua at the end of the bed. No wonder he’s not rearing to go.
BiteSizedGabi: Should I be concerned that my dog ventures off with you so willingly?
Eros415: You should be more concerned that you do the same thing. Letting strange masked men into your bedroom? Honestly, Gabi, it’s a little deranged.
BiteSizedGabi: Says the man who encourages it.
I slip on a bathrobe and pad down to the kitchen. In the fridge, I find another parfait from my favorite bakery—this time with cherries.
BiteSizedGabi: Sensing a theme here.
He sends me back a Ghostface meme that reads: I love it when we’re on a date, but only one of us knows it.
BiteSizedGabi: I should not be smiling at that.
Eros415: And yet you are.
A shiver moves through me as I glance around, as if he could actually see me. I don’t know why the idea of that gives me dark butterflies instead of the creeps. There’s something seriously wrong with me.
Maybe I am a little deranged.
I sit at the breakfast bar, eat the parfait, and plan my day.
Now that I have the quiet of the penthouse to work in, I’ve been able to get ahead on my senior collection, and I want to keep up the momentum.
It’s so much easier when I’m not distracted by the chaos in the classroom, and if I could, I would just do the bulk of my work here.
I spend some time chasing up that idea by pricing out drafting tables, fabric racks, and design tools, and adding them to a Pinterest board.
It’s more of a dream than anything, because I can’t afford all the things I’d need to work from here entirely.
Though truthfully, if I could have done the program virtually, I would have preferred that.
I work better alone, in silence, when I have complete concentration.
When I’m finished trying to manifest an entire studio, I take a shower and start getting ready for the day. A quick glance at my phone alerts me to two new messages from Eros.
Eros415: OOTD pic.
Eros415: Wear the white socks.
BiteSizedGabi: Is this a new kink?
Eros415: My kink is you.
My heart does a little flip in my chest before I tell myself I need to calm down. I cannot get attached to this guy.
Still, that doesn’t stop me from going to my closet in search of the infamous white socks.
I know he’s been stalking my Instagram, so he’s referring to the thigh-high knit socks.
I pair them with a pink skirt, a cherry-printed cardigan, and a red beret.
When I snap a picture and send it, I receive two replies within seconds.
Eros415: System Preferences Updated: Pink is my new favorite color.
Eros415: I’m going to peel those off you tonight.
BiteSizedGabi: You could come peel them off now.
Eros415: Don’t tempt me. You have homework to do. I’ll let you earn some extra credit later.
BiteSizedGabi: For you…I’m willing to put in the effort.
I venture down the hall, stopping in my room to grab Beppe. He likes to spend his weekends napping, and he knows when I’m working, he can relax. I settle him into his bed in the workspace and sit down, going over my notes from peer critiques.
The theme for my senior collection is coquette meets academia. My color palette centers around dusty rose, ivory, blush, charcoal gray, and black.
The design brief includes cropped tweed blazers, pleated skirts, bow-tied blouses, puff-sleeve cardigans, and a few deconstructed school uniform looks.
Embellishments and accessories are classic and understated—knit and ruffle socks, ribbon chokers, pearls, and Mary Janes.
Overall, my professor's feedback was good. She said that it was a niche market, but as long as I could define my customer base, it was a strong collection with unique styling.
During peer critiques, I received some of the expected remarks.
Too romantic. Too feminine. A little "out there.
" On the flip side, there were positive notes about my clear voice and strong craftsmanship—with several glowing reviews.
One classmate said it was giving Elle Woods meets Blair Waldorf, and that she loved it.
Two of my peers even offered to model for me if they could keep the outfits.
Then, of course, there was Bethany and her gaggle of friends.
They asked me if the collection had a tragic backstory, and called it mall-goth meets grandma’s doilies.
Professor Harlow was quick to point out that their feedback wasn’t constructive, which put an end to their remarks, but not their amusement.
They snickered for the rest of class, whispering to each other and casting looks my way.
I learned a long time ago that some people will always think I’m an easy target because I’m quiet in social settings.
But as it turns out, I'm not the only one Bethany and her friends have been rude to, which became obvious during the reviews of their collections.
After a barrage of constructive but harsh feedback, they left class much less buoyant than when they arrived.
With that in mind, I discard their comments and focus on the rest. I make a few revisions to my technical drawings, adjusting a seam line and a closure before turning to a silhouette I’ve never been quite happy with.
Once that’s done, I update the patterns.
Next week, we’ll begin sewing our muslin prototypes, and I’m eager to see how they come together.
By the time I pause to check the clock again, it’s inching toward evening. Beppe blinks up at me with sleepy eyes and yawns, slowly dragging himself out of his bed to stretch.