“You don’t need to.”
He steps closer.
I move back without thinking.
My shoulders meet the wall.
That’s it. No space left.
He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to. The pressure of his presence is enough on its own.
“You just have to show up,” he says, voice lower now. “Don’t be late.”
He turns and walks away.
I press my palms against the wall behind me, grounding myself against it.
Three days ago, he made it very clear what happens to people who know too much.
That hasn’t changed.
What’s changed is how easy it is to forget.
I push away from the wall and make it back to my desk, focusing on the only thing that still feels safe—work.
Files. Documents. Structure.
Things that make sense.
I lose myself in it as much as I can.
It doesn’t last.
The dress arrives at six.
A courier hands over the garment bag without a second glance.
I bring it inside and lay it across my bed—the bed that barely fits in the apartment, in a neighborhood that gets quiet in a way that isn’t comforting after dark.
The zipper slides open.
I pull the bag back.
And stop.
Red. Deep, almost black in certain light. The fabric catches softly, expensive in a way I don’t need to understand to recognize. The cut is elegant, but not subtle—a high slit, a low back, meant to be seen.
There’s a note pinned to the hanger.
Don’t be late.
— R
I check the time. Two hours.
Enough to get ready. Not enough to overthink it.
4
