Sonnet Ellison
I had been staring at the same forkful of pasta for almost a minute.
The café sat across the street from my office. Before that night, I would have had lunch on a bench in the park to enjoy the summer weather. Now I needed windows, witnesses, and enough people around me that nobody could quietly drag me into a vehicle.
Trying to live normally had become a full-time job.
From the outside, nothing had changed. Inside, I was constantly waiting for something to happen.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me.
Sometimes it was only a car parked too long near my building.
Other times it was a man standing on a train platform or somebody walking behind me for more than one block.
I checked reflections in storefront windows, changed routes, and avoided isolated streets even when doing so added twenty minutes to my commute.
I kept telling myself fear could create patterns where none existed. That was what people did when they were scared. We built theories. We analyzed harmless details until they became evidence.
The problem was, I no longer believed the details were harmless, and the fear felt too familiar.
It reminded me of living in the group home, where danger rarely announced itself before it arrived.
I never knew which girl might decide to corner me because she was angry, which older boy might follow me into a hallway and let his hands linger where they didn’t belong, or whether the adults responsible for us would care enough to intervene.
Even when nobody was actively hurting me, I remained alert because safety could disappear without warning.
Back then, I also carried the constant fear of aging out.
I didn’t know where I would live, how I would survive, or who I could call if everything fell apart.
I had escaped that life, built a home, and created the stability nobody had given me.
Now, I was living with the same helpless anxiety again, waiting for danger I could feel but couldn’t locate.
My phone vibrated beside my plate, and Dior’s name appeared on the screen.
I almost just let it ring, but I instantly felt guilty. “Hey.”
“Do not ‘hey’ me in that tired little voice.”
Despite myself, I smiled. “What voice would you prefer?”
“One with life in it. One with joy. One that sounds like you have not been wandering around your condo in a bonnet listening to sad music.”
“I don’t listen to sad music.”
“You read sad books. Same depression, different packaging.”
I looked through the café window. A black sedan waited at the light. The driver faced forward, but I still watched until the car turned.
“What do you want, Dior?”
“Dinner. Tonight. Somewhere cute with cocktails and flattering lighting for good footage for TikTok.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” he whined.
“I have work.”
“You leave work at five.”
“I need to stay late. I have a busy week.”
“You are always busy, but you usually make time for me.” His voice had lost some of its playfulness.
Guilt returned immediately. I had been avoiding him.
The more time we spent together, the easier it would be for someone watching me to identify him.
Dior was not difficult to remember. He dressed like every sidewalk was a runway, spoke to strangers as though they were already friends, and never entered a room quietly.
He was also the person Roman could use to make me cooperate.
“I’m tired,” I said.
“No. You are being distant.”
“I have a lot going on.”
“And you won’t tell me what any of it is. “You do this every time life gets hard, Sonnet. You disappear inside yourself and decide nobody gets to help you.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“It is very fair. You have barely spoken to me for days. When I ask what is wrong, you give me some vague answer about work or being tired.”
The truth was on the tip of my tongue. I could tell Dior everything, and he would come get me, insist I stay with him, and try to help even if helping placed him directly in danger. But I couldn’t do that to him.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
His silence told me the apology wasn’t enough.
“There are times when my past gets the best of me,” I continued. “This is one of those times.”
His voice softened. “Your mother?”
“Everything.”
It was another lie built from the truth. Memories of my past still affected me. They simply were not why I could barely eat my lunch at that moment.
“I wish you would let me be there for you.”
“I know.”
“Maybe you need depression medication.”
I blinked slowly. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious. A little prescription might help you stop acting like Wednesday Addams with a master’s degree.”
A laugh slipped out before I could stop it.
“There she is,” he teased. “I knew you were still in there.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“And you love me.”
I did. That was exactly why I could not tell him.
“I will call you later,” I promised.
“You better.”
“I will.”
“And eat something. You don’t eat when you get in your feelings. Your ass is too nice to go flat.”
“Goodbye, Dior.”
“Love you too, bitch.”
Something felt wrong before I even closed my front door.
I stood in the entryway with one hand wrapped around my keys and listened.
But I heard no movement. My condo looked exactly like I’d left it that morning.
The decorative pillows remained arranged across the couch.
My book sat face down on the coffee table beside the mug I’d forgotten to put in the dishwasher.
The television was off, and the curtains were closed.
Still, the silence felt wrong.
I lived alone. So, silence was normal. But suddenly my home didn’t feel peaceful.
It felt occupied.
I glanced at the alarm panel near the door. The system showed that it had disarmed normally when I entered my code. There were no alerts about a window or door opening while I’d been gone.
That should’ve reassured me, but it didn’t.
I locked the door behind me and slowly lowered my work tote to the floor. My phone was inside it, buried beneath my laptop and snacks container. I considered reaching for it, but the movement would require me to look away from the dark hallway leading toward my bedroom.
A faint sound came from somewhere deeper inside the condo. It sounded like fabric brushing against a wall or someone breathing.
“Hello?” The second the word left my mouth, the lights went out: every lamp, the light above the stove, and even the digital clock on the microwave. Darkness swallowed the entire condo.
I stumbled backward and reached across the entryway table until my hand closed around the decorative, heavy, ceramic vase.
I yanked it off the table and raised it with both hands. But my eyes struggled to adjust. A little light slipped beneath the curtains from the street, creating shadows where furniture should’ve been. I could make out the edge of the couch and the opening to the hallway.
Then a man stepped out of it. He was large enough to block most of the opening. Black clothing covered his body, gloves covered his hands, and a black poo-shiesty mask concealed every detail of his face, except his eyes.
I threw the vase, screaming.
He moved his head, but not fast enough. The vase struck his shoulder and shattered against the wall behind him.
I grabbed the pepper spray clipped inside my purse pocket.
“Don’t,” he warned.
I sprayed him directly in the face.
He cursed and turned away, throwing one arm over his eyes, to shield his eyes and nose.
I ran to the door. But he caught the back of my blouse before I reached it. The fabric pulled tight against my throat as I twisted around and drove my keys toward his face.
He blocked my wrist. So, I raked my nails across the exposed skin near his eyes.
“Fuck!” he growled, and his grip loosened.
I drove my knee upward. He shifted just enough to keep me from landing where I intended, but I caught his thigh hard enough to make him grunt.
“Get out of my house!” I shrieked, hoping my neighbors would hear me.
“I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“Bullshit!”
I swung the pepper spray again. He knocked it from my hand, but I grabbed his wrist and bit down through the fabric of his glove.
He cursed louder and pulled away. I turned, unlocked the dead bolt, and yanked the door open. I made it one step into the doorway before a thick arm locked around my waist and ripped me backward.
My feet left the floor. I screamed and kicked, but he pulled me firmly against a body that felt like solid muscle. One of his arms remained around my waist while the other trapped both of mine against my chest.
“Stop fighting.” His voice sounded unbothered, which terrified me more than yelling would have.
I threw my head backward, hoping to break his nose. He turned in time, and my skull struck the side of his masked face instead.
“Goddamn it!” he fussed.
“Let me go!”
As he held me, I kicked at the open doorway, trying to hook my foot around the frame. He shifted his weight and dragged me farther inside.
The condo door remained open, and I stared longingly at the freedom only a few feet away.
I twisted in his grip and snapped my teeth toward his forearm. But he jerked it out of reach.
“Stop trying to bite me,” he warned, almost as if it was funny.
“Go to hell.” Then I tried again.
Still holding me with only one arm now, he caught my jaw carefully between his gloved fingers before my teeth could reach him. “I said stop fighting.”
“And I said go to hell.” Then I turned my face towards his and spit in his face.
He jerked back and gave me the opportunity to stomp on his foot, threw my elbow backward, and fought harder.
He kicked the condo door shut behind us, and the click of the lock sounded final.
I stared into the eyes visible through his mask and understood that my fear had been right all along.
Someone had been watching me, and now he was inside my home to kill me.
But every murder documentary I’d ever watched had lied to me.
The killers were always frumpy men with strange bodies, bad posture, and the kind of faces that made you assume they smelled like sweat, cigarettes, and a damp basement.
The man holding me felt nothing like that.
Even in the darkness, I could tell his body was hard and muscular beneath his clothes.
His chest pressed solidly against my back, and the arm around my waist felt powerful enough to lift me without effort.
Worse, he smelled delicious, like expensive cologne, clean skin, and something sexy I had no business noticing while being kidnapped.
His voice sounded like baritone butter. It was deep, smooth, and entirely too attractive for a man wearing a poo-shiesty mask in my apartment.
Apparently, death had upgraded its presentation.