He noticed that I am not completely happy with the way things are in my life right now.

  Even I didn't know that until he pointed it out. Or I didn't want to admit it.

  Still, I loathe doing this. It is shortly after noon and I am still in bed. I didn't even get up to eat something. I'm not hungry. Pen and paper in hand, I am trying to do his assignment.

  What makes me write?

  What do I want to achieve with it?

  "I don't know," I whisper to myself.

  The truth is, I haven't written anything in weeks. The last thing I wrote was a short marketing piece about designer furniture that a company wanted to use on its website. Why they chose to hire a no-name freelancer like me for the job was beyond me. It could only mean that they didn't have a lot of money for marketing.

  That job was tedious, but it paid well and I wish I could land more like it. But the freelance market is so competitive, and people are willing to do the work for less and less. Especially when they are just starting out like me. I am not willing to sell myself short, or I am not willing to charge less just to land a project, but that is what I need to do.

  I have no degree, no references except those provided by former employers, or no credentialed experience except that earned from former places of employment. And those are few.

  I would gladly write if I could earn money doing it.

  That is the truth. I would like to be able to earn money by writing. It doesn't even matter what I write. Writing comes easy for me. I can write two long pages praising the merits of a set of living room furniture that I would never be able to afford and that I think is ugly. I can give a detailed and persuasive description of just about anything. I just need a clear assignment.

  Because that is my weak spot. Creativity. I told Evan that I have no stories to tell, and that is the truth. I can write – but I need somebody to tell me what to write.

  I want to earn money writing, but without needing to be creative.

  I don't like that sentence and cross it out as soon as I write it.

  Of course, I would need creativity. Writing is always a creative process, even when one is just following an order.

  I’m such a hypocrite. Creativity. Isn’t this what I always blame others for lacking?

  How am I any different? I am not, except for the fact that I don’t have a regular job sitting alongside the same people in an office day in and day out.

  My shifts are random and I have a tendency to change jobs every few months. I don't do that for fun but rather out of necessity.

  I only work these jobs because I have to, because I am not earning enough money with my few little freelance writing project .

  But I know all of this. I knew all of this before Evan came along and pointed it out.

  This is stupid. This whole assignment is stupid.

  What does he expect? I have a million things going through my head – most of them are connected to him and what happened to us.

  He cannot expect me to quietly sit down right now and evaluate my life, come up with a new idea and plans that I haven't thought of already.

  Besides, I am hungry. I need to eat.

  I'm sure he'll understand.

  I throw the little notebook and my pen aside and finally get out of bed.

  Just a few hours later, I am standing in front of our full body mirror in the hallway, giving myself a last minute check before I leave the house. I am wearing another one of my few dresses. One that he has not seen before. It is strapless, which – as I am to find out later – will turn out to be the perfect choice for tonight.

  He promised to pick me up, but when I walk through the door downstairs, I don’t see his car anywhere. I hesitate for a moment, scanning my surroundings. I wait for him at the top of the stairs. He is nowhere to be seen.

  That’s odd. Usually, he would be a few minutes early, waiting for me. I have never been the one waiting for him.

  This is the first time that I have stepped outside after what happened at the restaurant.

  I feel weirdly exposed, scared even. But of what?

  I keep looking around, to the left and right, scanning the familiar street up and down again and again. There is nothing unusual going on, as far as I can tell.

  Why do I feel uneasy, scared?

  Why is he not here yet?

  Fraught with irrational thoughts beginning to take a hold of me, which is unusual because I am not one to lose my head this easily. But here I am standing at the top of my stairs, unable to let go of the doorknob as if it was a lifeline, unpleasant ideas starting to creep up.

  What if he tricked me? Maybe he never planned to show up, maybe he is playing a sick little game with me?

  He likes to control me; he likes the way he manages to have me wrapped around his finger in so many ways. What if it pleases him to humiliate me, too?

  What if someone is taking pictures of me right now?

  "Don't be ridiculous," I hiss to myself.

  But at that exact moment, I notice something. There is a car parked across the street. Nothing unusual at first sight. Just an average car parked like many others.

  Except there is someone sitting in it. It appears to be a middle-aged man. He is not paying any attention to me, but he looks like he’s fiddling with something in his lap. From where I am standing, I cannot tell what it is.

  My brain is pretty quick at completing the picture, though. A camera. He could be holding a camera.

  My breathing accelerates. Please, no.

  I keep staring at the man, but whatever he is doing keeps him occupied.

  And then he looks up – directly at me!

  I gasp and turn around, fetching my key as fast as I possibly can to open the door.

  I have no idea if he is still looking at me, or if he is taking pictures.

  I don't want to know.

  My heart is racing and I am breathing heavily when I finally manage to open the door and flee back inside.

  I run upstairs, chased by a kind of fear that I have never experienced before.

  Is this what paranoia feels like? Or did I just do the right thing?

  My hand is shaking as I try to unlock our apartment door. Yuka is not home, so at least I won't have any explaining to do to her about my erratic breathing and the drops of sweat on my forehead.

  "Fuck," I pant after slamming the door behind me.

  I am leaning against it as if I was trying to keep it shut. My pulse is still racing and I now feel cold sweat cloaking my entire body. I peel off my cardigan and throw it aside.

  I close my eyes.

  Calm the fuck down, Nicky.

  What is wrong with me?

  I feel dizzy, which is not surprising, given the insane rhythm of breathing.

  With my back to the door, I feel my knees giving in and I slowly slide downwards until I am on the floor, sitting with myback to the door.

  Slowly, very slowly, I can feel my body relaxing.

  You're safe. Nothing happened. Nothing is happening. You're imagining things.

  Am I, though?

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes. No matter what happened or didn't happen, I am safe now.

  My breathing slows down. It is completely quiet around me. No voices, no noise from the street, nothing except my faint panting.

  Until the doorbell rings.

  The sound of the bell echoes unnaturally loud amidst the quiet and causes me to startle. I even let out a little shriek.

  "Geez, Nicky," I chastise myself.

  The sound echoes in my ears. This could be Evan. It must be. Paparazzi would never ring a doorbell, would they?

  I get up on my feet and push the button of the intercom. My knees are still shaking when I ask, "Yes?"

  "Nicky!" I hear Evan's voice. "Are you okay?"

  I hesitate.

  "I don't know," I reply.

  I really don't know.

  "I saw you run back inside just as my car pulled up," he says. "Were yourunning away from me."

  "I... forgot something," I lie.

  He pauses for a moment. For seconds, all I can hear is the rustling sound of our old intercom.

  "Are you coming down?" he asks.

  I gulp. "I'd rather not right now."

  He sighs. "Then let me come up."

  He is not asking. He is demanding. With that tone in his voice that I can never deny.

  I push the button to open the door for him.

  My heart starts racing again as I wait for him to come upstairs. His confident, heavy steps are approaching floor by floor. He does not appear to be in a hurry, yet I can sense his tension.

  He looks fantastic, as usual. Rather casual, dressed in a light shirt and dark pants. Everything he wears always seems to be custom-tailored, flattering his perfect body.

  His hair looks boyish and unstyled today. It suits the smile that appears on his face once he is standing before me.

  In his hands he is holding two beautiful red roses, decorated with a long, thick silk ribbon in a pastel violet tone that matches the flowers.

  I smirk at him.

  "I couldn't show up empty-handed, could I," he says, handing me the roses. "You look gorgeous."

  I take them, unable to suppress the sheepish grin in response to his romantic gesture. I don't think anybody has ever given me flowers like these. The roses are in full bloom.

  "They are beautiful," I whisper. "Thank you."

  I look up at him, returning his smile. There is a hint of sadness behind it. Just as I see it on him, I notice that my smile conveys a similar sentiment .

  "What is wrong?" he asks, stepping forward and placing his hands on each of my shoulders. "You look shaken."

  I take a step back and beckon him to come inside. He doesn't take his eyes off of me as he follows me inside and closes the door behind us.

  "I should... get some water for these," I say and hurry into the kitchen.

  He follows me calm, steady, confident, whereas I move around hectically, fetching a water carafe and filling it with cold water.

  I try my best to appear fully occupied with the task of preparing the flowers he gave me. His eyes are on me. I can sense them like hot needles poking into my neck and back.

  He is leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed in front of his chest, observing me. Our eyes meet when I turn around, holding the carafe with the roses, a helpless smile on my face.

  He returns the smile but doesn’t say anything.

  "Do you want something to drink?" I ask while I place the roses on our kitchen table.

  I sound like a robot. Like someone who has rehearsed her lines for this interaction.

  "No, thank you," he says, mimicking my tone. "I would like to know what made you run upstairs, though."

  I pause. My hands are still wrapped around the carafe that I just placed on the table. I don’t know what to say. Right now, I feel rather stupid for my actions.

  Did I really believe there was a paparazzo waiting for me downstairs? Now, in the safety of my own home and with Evan standing next to me, the thought of someone waiting downstairs in a car to take a picture of me seems quite unlikely. In the end, I didn’t even actually see a camera. I just thought there might be one.

  I shake my head.

  "Nothing," I say. "It was stupid."

  "Don’t say that," Evan says. "You looked scared. And very shaken. There must have been something."

  He approaches me. I can feel his hands gently wrapping around my waist from behind. His familiar body warmth, his smell.

  I instinctively lean back into him and close my eyes as he starts planting little kisses on the back of my neck.

  "Tell me," he whispers. "Or I'll punish you for lying to me."

  CHAPTER XXII

  Evan

  She shakes her head.

  "No, it's really not –"

  I interrupt her with a strong bite on the left side of her neck.

  She flinches and tries to get away from me, but her struggle only causes me to tighten my grip around her waist and deepen my bite. My teeth are sinking deep into her skin, just as they did on that dreadful day. The day we got caught.

  The memory pains me as much as it pains her, but I don’t know if it’s the reason for her exclaiming a desperate "No!" while I’m sucking on her skin like a vampire.

  "No, huh," I say, interrupting my bite. "Don't you ever tell me 'no' when I ask you to share something like this with me. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Sir," she hisses.

  "Now tell me," I order. "What caused you to run back upstairs? What scared you?"

  She rolls her eyes. Something I will remember for later.

  "Paranoia," she says. "I might have had a little... panic attack."

  I turn her around and force her to look up at me by placing my finger beneath her chin.

  "Tell me," I repeat, fixing her with my eyes.

  There’s nowhere for her to flee and my sincere interest breaks the protective walls she created to keep herself safe, hidden. Caught and exposed like this, there is no room for anything but honesty.

  "I thought I saw someone," she says. "In a car. A guy. He was just sitting there in a parked car, fiddling with something. It was creepy. I couldn't figure out what it was, but I thought he might have a... camera."

  I sigh, lowering my eyes with shame.

  "I am sorry," I say, feeling helpless. "You have no idea how sorry I am to put you through this."

  She really does have no idea. I have been in anguish over my idiotic behavior since the day it happened. I want to blame Roy for everything, but I know that wouldn’t be fair. While he didn’t do a perfect job of keeping me – and Nicky – safe from the kind of shit I was happy to be rid of after Sheila left me, he is right when he says that I haven’t exactly made things easy for him.

  When I see Nicky’s hurt, sad face, I can’t help but blame myself for the pain she’s experiencing. I know what she feels like, because I’ve been in her shoes before.

  "You might not believe this," I say letting go her chin. "But I know how you feel. Very well."

  "Do you?" she asks.

  I nod.

  "Something very similar happened to me," I say. "While I was dating Sheila."

  Her eyes flicker at the mentioning of Sheila’s name. It must be the first time I’ve ever started talking about her without Nicky pestering me with questions beforehand.

  "We wanted to hide our relationship from the spotlight," I continue. "Which – as you know – didn't go very well. We were exposed during an outing together. Just a simple dinner. Surprised by paparazzi. Sheila didn't expect them and was overwhelmed by the whole thing. She didn't handle it very well."

  I look at her, intently observing even the slightest hint of a reaction on her face.

  "She failed me," I proceed. "Just like I failed you a few days ago. "

  "You did," she agrees.

  I nod, guiltily.

  "I should have showed my appreciation for you, protected you from those hordes," I say. "Instead I tried to hide you away. At that moment, I honestly thought I was doing the right thing – for you and me. But I realize now, I didn't. If anything, I made you feel the same way Sheila made me feel back then."

  I pause and look at her with a serious face, trying my best to convey my true feelings.

  "I know how you feel," I repeat. "And I hate myself for making you suffer this way."

  "Why did you do it, then?" she asks.

  I sigh. "I can't tell you, baby girl. I really can't. It was what came to mind at that moment."

  "I am not only talking about that moment," she presses. "But the days after, too. You didn't warn me that those pictures might get published. I hardly heard anything from you. And you didn't pick up your phone..."

  "Yes, you're absolutely right," I agree. "That was shitty behavior on my part. And I want to make it up to you."

  "How?" she wants to know.

  "Honesty," I say simply. "I will tell you everything you want to know. About me. About me and Sheila. You deserve to have your questions answered."

  She raises her eyebrows, visibly surprised.

  "Did you lose interest?" I ask.

  "No," Nicky hurries to reply. "I just didn't expect this."

  I smile. "Good, I like to surprise you."

  She clears her throat. We are still standing somewhat awkwardly next to her kitchen table. She distances herself from me, but motions for me to follow her.

  "Let's go to my room," she suggests. "I don't like standing here."

  She makes an effort to turn around and walk out of the kitchen, but I grab her wrist and hold her back.

  "No," I say. "I want to talk to you first. If we go into your room, I guarantee you there will be no talking, I will rip your clothes off and fuck you senseless."

  Her eyes widen and she blushes, which doesn’t make things easier. I want nothing more than to make things up to her the best way I know how to, but I want to get these things out. I want to tell her everything, I need to.

  "Would that be so bad?" she asks. "If we’d play a little and then—"

  I smirk at her.

  "My cute girl," I say huskily. "I missed you. A lot more than you think. I'll devour you like no other. I crave you."

  "Well, then –" she stutters, but gets interrupted by me again.

  "But we need to talk first," I urge. "We really do."

  I pull her back towards meand plant a little kiss on her forehead. Then, I beckon her to have a seat.

  I want to have this talk now. She has handled the trouble and my shitty behavior so well that I can’t wait to see how she’ll handle the truth about me and Sheila. It’s a simple truth, but one that says a lot about what it means to be mine.

  She reluctantly follows my gesture, but makes sure to cast me a playful frown.

  "You sure you don't want anything to drink?" she repeats her question from earlier.

  I shake my head. "Just take a seat."

  She obeys and places herself opposite me.

  I look at her expectantly and she returns the same look of anticipation.

  "So?" I ask, arching my eyebrows impatiently.

  "So?" she repeats, cocking her head.

  I chuckle at her silly gesture. "If you want to know things, you will have to ask me, sweet Nicky."