Chapter 2 #2
A lighter cuts through the darkness, illuminating a male figure leaning against the wall and lighting a cigarette.
I recognize Boyana’s man from the bar. His well-defined bicep flexes when he lifts his arm to take a drag.
The dim glow highlights the sharp contours of his face—a strong jawline and full lips that part, exhaling a ribbon of smoke.
Something primal, predatory rises inside me. I cross the space between us, unsure of my intent.
The moment he notices me, his attention drifts languidly down my blue dress. “Hello?” His voice is warm and assured, prompting a smile from me.
Yes, an excellent choice, indeed.
“Is it just me, or is it way too hot out here?” I sigh. “Got a spare cigarette?”
He takes another drag. “Sure.” He pulls a pack from the back pocket of his pants.
I pluck one and he offers me a light. I toss the unlit cigarette into the tall ashtray by the wall. “Thank you. But I don’t smoke.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise, and he chuckles. “Then why did you—?”
“Because I wanted to test something.”
I pivot on my slender heels and saunter away.
Three, two, one…
“Wait!”
Already got him on a leash.
I suppress a smirk when he catches up to me. The entrance lights up his profile, revealing his striking green eyes.
“I never caught your name, birthday girl.”
Ah, so he was paying attention inside. Just not to Boyana. Then again, after the DJ’s countless shout-outs, I’m not surprised that my presence made an impression. “Nicole,” I say.
He tosses the cigarette on the ground, crushing it with his shoe. “I’m Branimir.”
Branimir. What an unusual name. I like it.
He glances at his watch, frowning. “Listen, Nicole. I have to get going, but…” He hesitates for a moment. “I could just hope to run into you again, but getting your phone number would be more convenient.”
I cross my arms, aware that the movement draws his attention to my décolletage. “So, is collecting numbers your thing?”
“If they belong to birthday girls.” He smirks.
“Ah, so I’m the lucky one. Give me your phone, then.”
He hands it over. I enter my number, relishing the feel of his proximity. Even in my four-inch heels, he still towers over me, an undeniable advantage that a man has.
As I hand back the phone, his fingertips brush mine. It’s just a fleeting moment. But I’ve always had a soft spot for moments.
“See you soon, birthday girl,” he says, and disappears down the dark alley.
I head back into the club, the ground feeling steadier beneath my feet. That nagging unease from earlier has disappeared. Branimir’s appearance tonight was a nice distraction. Who knows, maybe it could even lead to something.
Unlike Boyana, I’m not searching for the man of my life, but I do enjoy male company. I have a thing for flirtation—for lingering glances and unspoken promises in a touch. For making someone lose their mind over me. Sexual desire is one of the strongest forms of control, and I love wielding it.
The prosecutor’s daughter—a mousy girl with a botched rhinoplasty, whose name I can never remember—accosts me, telling me all about her vacation in Vietnam.
Mid-way through her tirade, Boyana staggers over to me, her pitch rising above the music. “Have you seen him anywhere?”
I raise a single finger to signal the prosecutor’s daughter to pause. “Who?” I ask Boyana.
“My man! The one from the bar. I think he left.”
I shake my head and take a sip from my drink.
The truth is, nothing meaningful was ever going to happen between Boyana and Branimir.
And not even for the obvious reason that he’s a nine, and she’s a seven, with flattering filters and the right lighting.
Boyana exudes insecurity—that clingy need to be invited for morning coffee.
“You reek of desperation, darling,” I once told her while we were applying lip gloss in the mirror of a hotel bar. “To men, that’s as bad as gonorrhea.”
I’m not sure she understood. Maybe I expect too much from her. Not everyone is meant to be at the top of the food chain. Some are made to orbit men, and to convince themselves that’s love. Meanwhile, a lioness comes and takes it all. That’s just how the world works.
You’re either a predator or prey. Act like a predator, or cry like prey. And I’ve promised myself I’ll never cry again.
Yet, in that moment, a chill runs over my temple. A strange urge draws my attention to the corner of the room. A man stands there. The club’s flashing lights reflect off his dark clothing, but his face is hidden in shadow because of his height and the angle of the light.
“Let’s dance!” Misha grabs my wrist and pulls me onto the makeshift dance floor between the booths. The momentum carries me forward, but my muscles remain stiff. I glance back at the corner. He’s gone.
Damn it, what’s wrong with me? When did I start seeing stalkers lurking in dark corners? It must be leftover chills from that horror movie Boyana and I watched at the cinema last week.
It’s my twenty-first birthday. I should be drinking and dancing, having a good time.
So, I do exactly that.
After downing two glasses of champagne in quick succession, I spend the next few hours lost in the rhythm.
* * *
During the taxi ride home, I scroll through all my social media. There are endless photos I’ve been tagged in tonight. The most popular one was posted by one of the twins with the caption: “The Queen’s getting old.”
In the shot, the twins flank me on either side, striking their signature photo-ready poses, while I, eyes half-shut, mouth slightly open, appear to be mid-sentence. Hyenas. I bet there were better photos of me they could’ve used.
The taxi pulls up outside my family’s house in Bankya.
The three-story facade towers behind an ornate wrought-iron gate decorated with intricate designs.
Dark stone walls blend into the French windows with black wooden frames.
Soft spotlights illuminate the garden, showing off the colorful flowerbeds and manicured hedges.
At the gate, I disable the alarm on my phone and cross the yard. The grand foyer opens up before me—a two-story space featuring a sweeping staircase, sleek marble floors, and soft moonlight filtering in through tall windows. I tiptoe up the stairs.
As I pass my father’s study on the second floor, a thin line of light slips out from beneath the door. Unsurprising. My birthday has never been enough reason for him to stop working after midnight.
My parents’ bedroom door at the end of the hall shows no signs of movement, which means Mother is probably long sedated by her usual mixture of expensive wine and silence.
I’d like to say they celebrated raising a child to her twenty-first birthday, but they probably didn’t even notice it, aside from paying for the party and handing me a thick envelope with the message, “Get whatever you want for a present.”
The familiar scent of extinguished candles welcomes me when I reach my room on the third floor. Finally, I’m home.
At the far end of my personal library, in front of the drawn curtains, sits a pile of wrapped gifts.
Tributes sent from media outlets, from my family’s business associates hoping to curry favor, from designers desperate to be noticed, from distant relatives who remember us on holidays, from charities seeking donations, and from anonymous admirers.
I don’t need to unwrap them to guess what’s inside. Bottles of wine, boxes of chocolates, confectionery assortments. Tomorrow, I’ll have them all distributed among the household staff and ask why they even bothered bringing them up to my room.
My attention shifts to the satin sheets on my huge bed, my impatience growing as I look forward to taking off my dress and removing my makeup.
I pull the dress over my shoulders when a small leather pouch catches my eye, hidden among the gifts.
It stands out against the sea of shiny ribbons and bright paper, its simplicity almost glaring.
I could swear it wasn’t there a second ago.
I let my dress slip to the floor and, wearing only my lingerie, retrieve it. A black cord secures the pouch shut, and I pull it loose. Expecting to find a bracelet or a pair of earrings—something predictable and glittering—I instead find a folded slip of paper.
A strange unease stirs in my chest while I unfold it.
The printed words read:
At times, I’m all you wish to see,
At times, I’m what you wish to flee.
But I’m mere shape, no true possession,
An entity formed at your discretion.
What am I?
I read it again. What the hell is this? A riddle?
Or a mistake, accidentally ending up in my hands?
I decide to throw it away. Stepping into the bathroom, I glance at the paper one last time, about to toss it into the trash.
My hand freezes in midair.
What the…?
The text is gone.
New words linger in its place.
Happy Birthday, Harvest 290.
My fingers tighten around the paper. This is meant for me.
My legs weaken, a chill seeping into my bones.
‘Harvest 290’?
Why does it sound so… disturbing?
I stare at the message, my heart pounding. Pull yourself together, Nicole. Someone’s just playing a trick on you.
It must be some kind of novelty paper, designed to change text when viewed from a different angle.
I’m not about to waste my time figuring out how it works.
It’s not like I don’t have an entire army of enemies.
Status like mine tends to breed resentment, usually from the ones who smile the brightest at you at events.
Maybe someone who didn’t get an invitation to my party?
My fingers tighten around the crumpled paper, as if I could squeeze the answers out by sheer force. Who the hell thinks they can mock me by sending cryptic little riddles?
With a swift motion, I crush the note into a tight ball and toss it into the bin. Shedding the rest of my clothing, I dive into the warm spray of the shower. The water runs over my skin, washing away the tension, but the irritation remains.
Whoever stooped to such childish tactics only shows how much of a thorn in their side I must be.
A faint smirk brushes my lips, but there’s no amusement behind it. I’ve learned not to dwell on petty nonsense, and I’m not about to start now.
A lioness doesn’t bother with mice.