Chapter 9 You’re Perfect
You’re Perfect
Emily's Search History: How to tell your parents they’re not really helping you?
Emily
“Darling!” my dad greets the second my thumb taps accept on his call.
“Hi, Dad.” A genuine smile tugs at my lips at the sound of his voice.
“How are you? We haven’t spoken in weeks.”
I wince. “I know. Sorry—I’ve just been busy.” Busy doing fuck all, I nearly snort to myself. “How’s Mum?”
There’s some shuffling on the line before her voice comes through.
“I’m here, love. We miss you.”
“Miss you guys too.”
My parents moved us to Italy when I was sixteen. At first, I was devastated—leaving my friends, my school, my life. But I adjusted quickly, learning the language, embracing the culture.
I would’ve never come back if it weren’t for her.
Gianna.
I thought she loved me. Thought she cared.
I was an idiot.
She shattered me so completely that I left the place I’d come to call home—left my job, my parents… even my cat.
“How’s Graham?” I ask, needing something warm.
Dad switches the call to FaceTime, and suddenly my screen is filled with my beautiful British Blue shorthair, his perfect pineapple eyes staring into the camera. My dad’s wrinkled, smiling face pops in beside him.
“Hi, baby!” I coo. “I’ve missed you.”
“We just wanted to check in,” Mum says, snatching the phone from Dad. “We’re worried about you, Em.”
“I’m fine. Work’s just been hectic lately.”
“Any interesting clients?”
My cheeks warm as Eli flickers through my mind.
“You know I can’t talk about that,” I say, avoiding her gaze.
She scoffs but lets it go. For a second.
“Have you gained weight?” she asks.
The question slams into me like a bullet. My mood plummets.
“I don’t know, Mum.”
“You should watch what you’re eating. You’ll never find a man… or woman… if you don’t look after yourself.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I mutter.
“I’m just trying to help, love.”
“Yep. Thanks, Mum. Actually, I’ve gotta go. Love you guys!” I hang up quickly before the tears can well up.
She doesn’t mean to hurt me. She really thinks she’s helping.
But it’s not like I don’t know there are extra pounds I could lose.
I can feel the familiar need to bury my feelings in food creeping in, digging its claws into my soul. I uncross my legs, intending to stand—
My phone buzzes with a new message.
Anonymous: Don’t listen to her. You’re perfect.
I choke on a laugh, my chest tightening in a maddening way that should be concerning. My heart flutters despite everything.
Emily: Are you watching me right now?
Anonymous: Yes.
Emily: Why?
Anonymous: Because I like to.
Anonymous: Who’s Graham?
I bite back a grin, the urge to provoke him rising like a tide.
Emily: Why do you want to know?
Anonymous: So I know whether or not he needs to die.
My breath catches. His words are delivered so casually, like murder is just another item on his to-do list.
Emily: Guess you’ll never know.
Anonymous: Don’t test me, Angel. I’m the jealous type.
Emily: I think I got that part when you sent me Tom’s finger as a present.
He replies with a Gif of man rolling his eyes.
Anonymous: I already apologised for that… and you liked my last gift.
Anonymous: A lot.
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
Oh God. He saw me.
Did he hear me moaning Eli’s name? I can’t imagine that went down well.
My heart starts a staccato drum as I worry about my mysterious patient getting harmed.
Emily: How are you watching me?
No answer.
I let out a sharp breath, annoyed, and toss my phone onto the sofa. In defiance, I grab one of my therapy books and force myself to focus.
Eventually, I settle. This is why I love my boring little books—highlighting, annotating, surrounding myself with colour-coded sticky notes like it matters.
I cook dinner.
Eat enough pasta for three people.
Then feel guilty about it.
Monotony.
Eli
Graham.
Who.
The fuck.
Is.
He?
Her whole face lit up when she saw him.
I’ve never been this fucking jealous in my life.
The urge to skin the bastard from head to toe is almost unbearable.
She’s testing me. Pushing my limits like it’s some sort of game. She laughed at my possessiveness. Ignored my question.
She wants to play?
Fine.
I’ll show her how serious I am.
I power down my computer, grab my mask, and head out.
The car sits in the drive, but that’s not what I need tonight. I straddle my bike—a Triumph Bonneville T120—throttle the engine, feeling it rumble beneath me, and race into the night. The wind bites through my jacket and jeans, slicing through my rage just enough to think straight.
If this Graham matters to her, I can’t kill him.
Not yet.
But I can make damn sure he never lays a finger on what's mine.
I park behind her building and climb the fire escape with ease.
I’ve done this before. Watched her sleep. Studied her breathing. Memorised the shape of her in the dark.
Pulling up the surveillance app on my phone, I check she’s still out cold.
She is. Snoring softly.
Perfect.
I slide the living room window open—silent, careful—and step inside.
Each step towards her bedroom is measured, deliberate.
The door creaks slightly as I slip through.
She doesn’t even stir.
My angel.
She’s naked, as usual. The duvet’s kicked off, her tits on full display as she lies on her side. Dark nipples, hard and begging for attention.
Her hair’s a mess around her face; a little crust of drool dried on the corner of her mouth.
She shifts, rolling onto her back—her breasts fall to either side, soft and heavy.
God, what I’d give for a single taste.
This is my moment.
I don’t want to frighten her too much—just enough.
She needs reminding.
She’s mine.
I draw the knife from my rucksack, the handle cool in my grip.
Climbing over her, I brace myself with one hand, pressing the blade gently to her throat with the other.
Her eyes fly open.
She goes to scream.
“Shhh, Angel. It’s just me.”
She relaxes at my words—modulated and distorted, like a low rasping growl. Batman with a fucking obsession. Satisfaction hums inside me. She’s not scared by me. She knows I would never hurt her.
“W-what do you want?” she whispers, her heart pounding so hard I can see it through her chest.
Her eyes flick down—realising she’s naked—and she scrambles to cover herself.
I kneel back, catch her wrists, and gently pull them away. Then I lower myself over her again.
The knife presses in a little more.
Just enough to break the skin.
A single droplet of blood beads at her throat.
If it wasn’t for the mask, I’d lick it from her skin. Salty, coppery, warm—mine.
“Who is Graham?” I hiss, though it comes out more like a deep snarl.
She whimpers. The sound shoots straight to my cock.
“Who is he?” I repeat, voice sharper this time.
“M-my cat!” she breathes.
I pause.
She’s trembling beneath me, eyes wide, barely breathing.
“You don’t have a cat.”
“N-not here,” she stammers. “He’s with my parents. In Italy.”
A cat?
That’s who she was smiling at?
I stare at her. Then I laugh—dark and warped by the modulator. It echoes in the room like something out of a nightmare.
I lean down and bury my face in her neck, inhaling her scent—fresh apples.
Fucking intoxicating.
“Can you get off me now?” she asks, some fire creeping back into her voice.
Good girl.
I sit up. Give her the space she wants.
But I don’t leave.
I drag the chair from her dresser, turn it around, and straddle it—watching her.
“What are you doing?” she demands.
“Go back to sleep, Angel.”
She sits up, clutching the duvet to her chest. “No. Please leave.”
I tilt my head. “Can’t do that. You’ve got two options: go to sleep… or entertain me.”
She narrows her eyes. “Entertain you how?”
“You could give me a live show.” I waggle my brows, then remember—she can’t see my face.
Doesn’t matter.
Her blush gives her away.
“You’re sick,” she says. “Stop watching me.”
I grin beneath the mask. “You don’t seem all that angry about it. Are you sure you’re not the one who needs therapy, Emily?”
She tries to bite back a laugh. Fails.
“Probably,” she mutters.