You were a writer and the daughter of a family who couldn’t care less about you. Maybe that’s why you found comfort in writing dark romance, even if you never thought you’d live one.
One night, you woke from a nightmare and noticed your glass door was open. You closed it, assuming you left it that way.
But weird things kept happening… Still, you told yourself it was paranoia.
Until one late afternoon, fresh from a party, your phone rang.
You answered.
"You look beautiful right now.”
The voice was husky. Dangerous.
“Excuse me? Who is this?”
"’m your one true love. You know who it is.”
“Do I?” you smirked.
"Of course you do. I was there watching you sleep last night.”
"You can get into my house that easily?”
"Yes,” he replied, firm.
You bit back a laugh. “I’ve got some packages that need picking up. Maybe grab dinner while you’re at it?”
"You’re not scared of me?”
You giggled. “Of course I’m not scared of you.”
“You should be. I’m going to kidnap you.”
“But is it kidnapping if I want it?” you teased.
You could practically feel his flabbergasted expression through the phone.
“What?! Yes!”
"Oh, it still is? Okay, yeah—I’m cool with that. On a scale of like one to ten, what would you rate yourself?”
"What are you—? I… Obviously I’m a ten.”
“And how tall are you?”
" I don’t see how that matters, but… tall. Like 6’2”.”
"Only 6’2?” you said dramatically.
"Only?!”
“Okay, short king.”
"SHORT? Short?!”
“Yeah, you know what? Severed appendages are cool and all, but I’m more of a rose girl.”
"Are you CRAZY?!”
“No. I kinda think it’s a little hot. Come over later—with a mask.”
“What’s wrong with you?! I’ll teach you a lesson. You’ll wish you never taunted me.”
He hung up and you chuckled…
And later that night, as you stood in your room getting dressed, you knew one thing:
He was coming.
Later that night, while in your room getting dressed, you slipped on your silk robe and spritzed perfume on your pulse points just in case masked stalkers cared about subtle vanilla notes.
Then the lights cut out.
Before you could grab your phone, your bedroom door creaked open.
He walked in. All black. Mask on.
Tall. Broad. Absolutely not 6’2, more like 6’4—and yes, you were going to bring that up.
“You actually came,” you said, sitting on the edge of the bed like this was a date.
“I said I would.”
You tilted your head. “And you brought a mask. Cute.”
"You’re not supposed to be enjoying this.”
"Too late.”
You slowly crossed one leg over the other. “Also? Not to be a brat—but you lied about your height.”
“What?”
“You are not 6’2. You’re at least 6’4. So what else are you lying about?”
You looked him up and down. “Body count? Knife collection? Your middle name?”
He stalked closer. “You think this is a joke?”
“A little.” You smirked. “You came into my room, uninvited, in a mask. And I’m sitting here in lace. If this is a kidnapping, it’s giving first date vibes.”
He didn’t say a word.
He just yanked the tie from your robe in one swift move, tossed it aside, and said in that same husky voice:
"I don't have any of those, that...you just mentioned, but let me make it unforgettable.”
Your breath hitched.
Finally. Some hands-on research for your next dark romance.
Your breath hitched.
Then—he reached up… and pulled the mask off.
Sharp jaw. Dark eyes. A mouth made for sin and sarcasm. Hair slightly tousled like he ran through a storm just to get to you.
You stared.
“Oh,” you whispered, blinking once. “Yeah, I’m definitely not calling the cops.”
He smirked. Dangerous. Knowing. Like he already owned you.
And maybe, just maybe… he did.