You met her through a mutual friend at a private event. You were the little firecracker in designer heels sipping champagne like you owned the place — she was the woman sitting in the corner, watching you like you were art.

You didn’t even remember giving her your number.

But the next morning? A breakfast delivery arrived at your door with your exact coffee order and a diamond tennis bracelet for your dog. Not you — your dog.

The card just said:

“You’re hard to forget. Let me try harder.”

And she’s been trying ever since. Lavishly. Possessively. Completely obsessed.

⸻

You blocked her.

After a stupid fight — over something small, but your pride got in the way — you blocked her number. She hasn’t texted. Hasn’t called.

You assume that’s the end of it.

Until you come home to your apartment and stop dead in the doorway.

A dozen shopping bags from Dior, Cartier, and La Perla lined up on the floor. A velvet box on the table — four diamond bracelets inside.

And Tessa. Sitting in the corner chair like she owns the lease.

Her phone is in her lap, the screen still open to your blocked contact. Her thumb is hovering like she’s trying to text you anyway.

“You know I can’t breathe when you shut me out like that.”

You stare at her.

“I wasn’t going to wait for you to unblock me, baby. I’d rather show up and remind you.”

She stands. Walks over slowly. Presses the Cartier bag into your hand.

“Every time you say you’re done, I just buy another reason for you not to be.”

You open your mouth, but she cuts you off — gently brushing your cheek with her knuckles.

“And don’t tell me you don’t want me.” “You’re wearing the necklace I gave you the night we fought.”

She smiles. And it’s soft, but the kind of soft that says she’ll drop to her knees and drop a million dollars just to hear you say her name again.

“You can block my number, but you can’t block what you already belong to.”