AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I drummed my fingers against the keyboard, the clack-clack-clack a rhythm to my racing heart. I had to make a choice, toe the line drawn in the sand by my own desires, or retreat to the safety of my neatly curated illusions.
The cursor blinked back at me like a dare from the depths of cyberspace. The wine in my glass sloshed as I took an aggressive sip, Aria's voice ringing in my head.
"Life isn't just about that twisted art of yours, Celeste. You need some real action," she had chirped earlier that day, all sunshine and goddamn daisies.
Real action? I snorted at the thought. The stalker’s proposition was more than 'real', it was the kind of fucked-up that had me second-guessing my sanity. His words, though they lit a fire in my belly, sparked an itch deep down that begged to be scratched.
"Fuck it," I muttered, my fingers flying across the keyboard with a fervor that surprised even me.
I'm in.
I hit 'send' before the buzz of liquid courage faded, sealing the deal with a guy who wanted to chase me through the damn streets of Chicago. My heart jackhammered against my ribcage, terror and excitement doing a dance in my veins.
"Consensual stalking," I mused aloud, pouring another generous helping of Cabernet. "Only you, Celeste, would find this kind of shit romantic."
Aria's encouragement echoed, her pep talks about embracing the wild side of life now sounding less like friendly advice and more like a demand from the depths of depravity.
With a buzz humming pleasantly in my brain, I stumbled over to the window, the city lights of Chicago twinkling mockingly. This was my world—gritty and raw, where the shadows held secrets and every alley whispered tales of betrayal and revenge.
"Let's give him a taste then," I whispered to myself, aiming my phone toward the view outside. The snapshot was a blurry mess of neon and night, a perfect metaphor for the clusterfuck of emotions swirling inside me.
"Hope you like puzzles, stalker," I laughed darkly, attaching the photo to another message. Because if he thought tracking me would be easy, he had another thing coming. I was a canvas smeared with shades of rebellion and sexuality; even I didn't understand the full picture.
With my pulse racing a mile a minute, fueled by fear and something wickedly close to lust, I sent the photo off into the void. It was out there now, a beacon for my personal boogeyman, an invitation to the cat-and-mouse game I never knew I wanted to play.
Exhaustion crept over me, heavy and thick. My eyelids were leaden curtains falling over a stage where the final act was too fucked up to predict. Yeah, sleep, that's what you need, I thought bitterly. Dream of princes and castles, because reality is a bitch with a whip, and she doesn't do safe words.
I curled into a ball, the cool fabric of my sheets a stark contrast to the heat coursing through me. The whirlwind of emotions was relentless—a cocktail of fear, arousal, and a dash of recklessness.
And with that, I let the darkness swallow me whole, the queen of my twisted fairytale surrendering to the night.
Chapter 4
Celeste
Sunlight, that traitorous bastard, seared through my eyelids like it was on a personal vendetta. I groaned, the sound muffled by the pillow that felt like it was stuffed with sandpaper and broken promises. My head pounded in rhythm with the thumping realization that last night's escapades had left me with more than just smeared mascara and a killer hangover.
"Fuck, what did I drink? Nail polish remover?" The words scratched my throat as I forced my eyelids open, squinting against the invasive light that flooded my tiny Chicago apartment. Every bone in my body screamed in protest as I tried to sit up.
Memories from last night played hide and seek within the foggy recesses of my mind. The art show, the endless flow of cheap wine, and then... the photo. A shiver crawled down my spine as the thought emerged, sharp and uninvited.
"Fuck," I muttered, pressing the heels of my hands into my throbbing temples. "Did I really do it? Or was it all just a crazy idea in my drunken haze?"
The photo in question wasn't exactly your friendly neighborhood selfie. It was the kind of risk that sober Celeste would never take, but drunk Celeste was apparently a rebellious idiot with a thing for self-sabotage.
Brilliant move. I scolded myself, the bite of sarcasm failing to mask the ribbon of fear that weaved through my chest. Nothing says 'good morning' like potentially arming your own stalker.
I swung my legs off the bed, the floor greeting my feet with a cold slap of reality. As I made my way to the kitchen, I caught sight of my reflection in the hallway mirror—my kinky hair resembling a bird's nest after a hurricane and dark eyes haunted with shadows of regret.
I sneered at my reflection, the bitterness in my mood a perfect match for the black coffee I poured into a chipped mug. The first sip scorched my tongue, but the pain was a welcome distraction from the gnawing anxiety that clawed at me.
"Get it together, Celeste," I whispered, almost pleading with myself as I paced the length of my living room. "You've got to remember. Did you hit send, or didn't you?"
I knew I should check my phone, confirm my actions, face the music—whatever metaphor suited the mess I'd made. But the device sat on the counter, silent and accusatory, and I couldn't bring myself to pick it up. Because deep down, in the place where fear and desire tangled like lovers in the dark, I knew the answer.
I finally hissed, resigning myself to the uncertainty that clung to me like the remnants of last night's perfume. I was Celeste Holloway—artist, survivor, and apparently, the queen of bad decisions. And whatever came next, I'd face it with the same stubborn defiance that had gotten me this far.
But first, I needed another cup of coffee.
