Little Snowflake: A dark romance novella, page 6
So, I’m calling it a he now?
It feels like a he.
I hadn’t noticed it until now, but the mild scent of leather and cedarwood gathering in my office assaults my nostrils, giving me the first piece of him. The only piece of him that I know.
I don’t know how much he knows about me, but he’s been in my personal space more than enough times to learn a few things, but the only thing I know is his mild scent. Not even a decent lingering scent, only one that’ll fade easily. I can only detect the scent because it’s noticeably different to my usual black cherry candles that burn in my office every time I’m in here.
I feel clueless, stuck and weak. My feet ache from standing on them for so long, and even though I’m terrified to walk around my own house, I decide to shut my office door, lock it, and take a seat at my forest-green couch.
An ache grows in my neck from constantly looking over my shoulder as I expect to see a dark figure watching me. Reality is I’ve never seen this person before, so I don’t know why I suddenly expect him to show himself now. But I don’t know what he’s planning. The uncertainty of it is what fills me with pure dread.
In true Pria fashion, I pull out a notebook and a pen and I start considering my options.
Elle’s husband would never let me stay over, especially with Bucky and Ashy, and he wouldn’t let her stay here either.
I could always stay with my parents, but I think I would rather risk my life here than at theirs. They’re insufferable and I can’t even stay one night without wanting to leave before midnight.
The police are my last option, and my trust in them is non-existent. I don’t trust they’d help me. There are no signs of forced entry and other than a few random items, I can’t tell anything of importance is missing. Other than my gun, they'll just tell me I misplaced it. I only have the letters, and I’m certain they’ll just be shrugged off, the exact way my grandparent's death was.
I face the facts that are so clear in front of me like I’ve just put on a pair of brand-new glasses. He’ll catch me before I get help.
He can enter my house undetected, which means he’ll get to me before my safety is guaranteed.
God knows what he’ll do to me if I piss him off. I’m petrified to even consider that scenario.
At least at the moment, this game is on his terms. It doesn’t matter how much I resist him; he’s going to keep trying, and I need to use that to my advantage.
I know I need to play this sick, twisted game to figure out who he is and what he’s planning. He’s a stalker, a sick human being who gets off on torturing people. He likes watching others, invading their privacy and inserting himself into their personal safe space. He enjoys the torment he causes while playing cat and mouse. He loves the chase.
I feel like I’m living in my own horror movie, and I’ve watched enough to know I’m not the brave character who makes it to the end. I’m the character who slips in a puddle of her own tears and dies within the first twenty minutes.
He loves inflicting fear. I hate anything that makes me panic.
He enjoys this. I resent it.
But what happens when I start playing his game with my own rules?
His control over me will be stripped and I’ll be in charge of my own fate. Of course, terror will be sitting on my shoulder like the little devil it is, telling me all the worst possible outcomes, but this is the only choice I have to ensure my own safety, and sanity.
I’ll play along with his little cat and mouse game, until I won’t. I’ll change the rules and make him regret pissing off the shy, sweet Pria.
I ignore the heat coiling low in my belly at the thought of someone giving me their undivided attention in the most fucked up way. I have to remind myself that I like my alone time. I like doing the things I enjoy without fearing that someone is watching me. Most of all, I like a guy who takes me on dates and showers me with love and affection. Not stalk and taunt me.
Not all attention is the good kind of attention, Pria.
9
Pria
“We’ve got ten minutes to go, people!” Savannah’s voice bellows as she carries around a clipboard and has a headset placed firmly over her long brunette hair.
Sometimes when she gets too involved in something and becomes bossy, she reminds me of those teachers at school that assumed everyone listened to them because they were ‘cool’, but no one took an ounce of notice. Instead, it was the class where people could do no learning and get away with it.
She scribbles something down on her clipboard before telling whoever is on the other end of the headset to ‘make sure the music is ready else she’ll pluck his eyeballs out’. She’s not a violent person, but she often speaks first and thinks later. Her mouth is usually what gets her into trouble.
“Eight minutes to go!” She practically screams at a painful decibel and I fight the urge to cover my ears to prevent my ear drums from bleeding.
When I agreed to take part in the Care for Canines fashion show weeks ago, I didn’t think they’d actually want me to walk it. I’m a great help backstage; making sure stations are organised and everything is ten minutes ahead of schedule, so I can’t wrap my head around the fact they want me to be a model.
Me.
Pria Romano.
There are so many beautiful people here that, when they told me I’d be making my way up and down that runway, I had to remind myself to breathe. And not just by holding my breath subconsciously, I had already exhaled all my oxygen and my head was begging me to breathe by thumping so hard that I nearly passed out.
My mind immediately goes to all the negatives. What if I twist my ankle and fall over? What if my dress is tucked into my underwear the whole time? What if I walk on the wrong side and bump into other models?
Stop.
I need to take my brain out of my skull to stop thinking of the worst scenarios possible. And probably put it in a bowl of ice while I’m at it. I’ve spent my whole life overthinking every situation to prepare myself for every possible outcome. You’d think after considering every single scenario, I’d be a much more laid-back person, but instead I’m a big bundle of anxiety, just with more knowledge.
“Pria!” Savannah’s yell pulls me from the depths of my overthinking mind and forces me back to reality. I’m sitting in front of a fully lit mirror at an oak dressing table, with a full face of makeup, a peach satin robe and a hairbrush being yanked through my blonde locks as Savannah detangles my hair. She’s muttering about what outfits to wear, but not stopping for a single breath for me to respond, so I let her talk to herself while I clench my jaw to tolerate the pain.
My scalp feels like it’s on fire, clearly being gentle is something Savannah isn’t capable of. It feels like I’m eight years old again and Mamma is doing my hair for school. It doesn’t matter how soft your mother was, she was still aggressive when it came to doing their child’s hair for school time.
“Sav,” I trail off in an attempt to get her attention. I’m not shocked when she doesn’t even acknowledge me, she just carries on treating my hair like it’s a block of wood and she’s sanding it down. I consider turning around to face her, but I just know that’ll cause me more pain than her when I’m the one getting a hairbrush scraped down my face. And then I would have to deal with aggressive Savannah when my makeup gets ruined by said hairbrush.
I grab her attention the only way I know how; some gossip. “I got laid last night.”
She freezes. Her eyes gaze up to mine in the mirror and her brows slowly rise upwards. “You what?”
That’s the thing about gossip, it’s not always true. In this case, it’s a complete lie. I feel bad for lying to her, but I got her attention and that was my aim. I should feel successful...but a twinge of guilt resides at the base of my stomach.
My body twists around so quickly that I nearly give myself a cramp. My head shakes rapidly, and I can feel the heat gathering in my cheeks. I can't be embarrassed about anything without my face giving it away. Traitor.
“That was a lie,” I confess. My brows draw together as my sorrow sits on display in my eyes. "I just needed to get your attention, and you didn’t answer when I called your name.”
Savannah’s hand holds her chest as her mouth falls open in shock. “Damn, Pria! If you want my attention, just tell me Henry Cavill’s nudes have been released.” Her eyebrows jump up and down repeatedly as she smirks. “No need to lie.”
Her last sentence almost burns a hole of guilt through my heart. I’ve never kept the truth from her before, yet here I am keeping the biggest secret from her. Why is it so easy not telling her about my stalker coming into my house and leaving me letters? Knowing the danger of the situation and not telling Savannah makes my stomach twist. She’d kill me twice if this situation goes wrong. But it feels safer not telling her. She won’t think I’m crazy, she won’t try and protect me, and she certainly won’t be going to jail for defending me on my behalf.
“Let's put a couple of curls in here.” Her interruption to my thoughts is more than welcomed. I’m glad her mind doesn’t stick onto a conversation too long because I forgot why I even wanted her attention in the first place.
She once again tortures me with the hairbrush, loosening the curls she just put in my hair, before setting them with a few squirts of hairspray. She rushes off, murmuring something about outfits before disappearing behind a curtain. I’m left looking at my reflection.
So, this is what he sees.
Vulnerable, shy, and flawed.
And yet, he still returns, enticing me more and more with each visit. Tempting me with each letter. Practically displaying his infatuation for me on a flag and displaying it so everyone can see. I shouldn’t feel compelled to know more, the danger should be enough to deter me, but it does the opposite.
I feel sick to my stomach at how a bit of attention from a faceless person makes butterflies turn to chaos in my stomach. I'm easily terrified; I hate halloween and scary movies, yet danger involving him charges me like an electric wire and my whole body hums with anticipation, just knowing his eyes roam my body.
I want to punch myself to knock some sense into my brain. Why is temptation so much more compelling than logic? Why is the angel on my shoulder not screaming how dangerous this man could be? How he’s been watching me, invading my privacy and taking my things.
And why is the devil on my other shoulder speaking so loudly that it’s all I can hear. He watches me, learns my pattern, knows what I like and dislike. He gives me attention with a side of thrill. He doesn’t try to impress me with kindness like the other men in Charlestown.
That’s the thing about being shy and introverted; people assume you’re sweet and dainty, and need a man to impress with kindness to get a date.
But that’s not what I like.
I like being observed. I like knowing someone wants to learn small details about me that others wouldn’t care about learning. I like that he makes me want to live a little, to chase that electrifying feeling that tingles every time I know he’s been in my space. It feels like a fairground ride that slowly swings to its maximum height; each swing adds to the anticipation, leaving sparks of excitement firing in my stomach.
He’ll be watching me tonight. I know he will.
“What’s that smile for?” Savannah’s voice snatches my attention, although my brain is so wrapped up in the idea of being watched tonight that my brain can’t process what she said, so I just gawk at her like a clueless child.
“Pria Romano, why are you smiling like that?” Her teasing voice instantly makes my cheeks heat up.
Before I can answer, she brings me over a handful of outfits, some summer themed and some spring, but the one that catches my eye is the teal bikini with the sheer white cover up. Just the thought of wearing it makes me feel exposed. The coverup isn’t really covering much up, I may as well just wear the bikini.
“Isn’t there anything less revealing that I can wear?” I question, giving Savannah my best puppy dog eyes.
“Nope,” Savannah shakes her head. “Your figure is a blessing; you’re not hiding it any longer.”
I wince. I’ve gone twenty-four years hiding it, I don’t need to start showing it off now.
“And who knows,” Savannah trails off as she looks through a rail of clothes, “you might even find a boyfriend now you’re on display.” She winks in a joking manner as her mouth opens, and I can’t control my widening eyes.
I highly doubt that.
***
The Way I Are by Timberland echoes throughout the speakers as the fashion show hall is packed with bidders and fashionistas. Models make their way up and down the golden raised stage that is surrounded by rows and rows of chairs. Two medium sized screens are placed either side of the runway, displaying the walking models as they make their way up and down. Bright and slightly blinding lights flicker around the room, with an ice-white light staying central on the walking models.
A large screen is at the beginning of the runway displaying the item of clothing being worn, who it’s designed by and its starting bid price. Even though Care for Canines is a small charity, many well-known designers gifted pieces for the auction. With well-known designers come a lot of loyal fans, so Care for Canines yearly fashion show often does well.
Luckily, the outfits I was instructed to wear were within the first group of models up on the runway, so I managed a few almost impossible outfit changes and a near nip-slip, but my walks of fame were over and done with in less than ten minutes.
I’m not complaining though. I’m comfortable out of the spotlight, and that’s exactly where I am right now as I sit backstage with a vanilla cupcake and my good friend Clark.
Clark has been a friend of mine and Savannah’s since I accidentally threw up on him at Haunt and Hunt Funfair a few years ago. Sav practically forced me to go on a very fast, spinning ride, even though I told her I couldn’t do it, but she didn’t listen. She laid some guilt trip bullshit on me and I fell for it. Unfortunately for Clark, he had to suffer the consequences. He was directly in front of me and before I could even unbuckle myself on the finished ride, the contents of my stomach were projectile vomiting onto poor Clark.
His caramel-coloured skin matches well with the white suit he’s wearing, which was Savannah’s strict colour code for staff this evening, and his buzz cut draws attention to his perfectly placed facial features. Clark has been blessed by the gods with his features, it almost made Savannah’s face turn beet-red when Clark told her he didn’t want to be in the fashion show. He looks exactly how a male model would look, tall frame, strong jawline, muscles but in proportion to the rest of his body, and gorgeous amber eyes that pull you in like a homing beacon. I get Savannah’s annoyance, but Clark is also a tech geek, so him choosing to manage backstage makes more sense than him walking in the show.
“So,” I ask as I nibble icing off the cupcake wrapper, “do you have a special someone?” I tease, raising my brows up and down.
“Nope,” he pops the P. “My love life is non-existent. It’s hard to find someone when you haven’t met anyone new since you were twelve.”
He isn’t wrong. Charlestown is so small that everyone either knows everyone, knows of everyone, or knows someone that knows someone.
“Maybe you should try getting out of town, seeing what the world has to offer?” I fold the empty cupcake wrapper up and reach behind me to grab a new one.
“Are you trying to get rid of me, Romano?” His smirk is contagious, I can’t help smiling back at him.
“Would I ever? Charlestown wouldn’t be the same without you. I just want you to find someone. Be happy, you know?”
He nods in approval. “The right woman is out there for me; I’m just waiting for her to make an appearance.”
“Don’t wait,” I shake my head. “Go find her instead. Everyone deserves their own epic romance story.”
His large hand grasps mine, giving me a squeeze of reassurance. I invite the comforting hold. It’s not often we have vulnerable moments like this. Majority of the time, it’s Savannah and Clark verbally sparring while I observe.
But neither of us confuse the gesture. Our friendship always has and always will stay on a friendship level and neither one of us wants to cross that line.
As soon as the friendship line is blurred, it’s as opaque as thick fog. It may only take a small action to get out of the friendship zone, but once that happens, it’s like hiking up Mount Everest to get back into it. It’s not as simple as it seems and we both know that.
Clark is a dear friend, but I’ve never felt any sexual attraction towards him. Yeah, he’s drop dead gorgeous, but I can appreciate one’s beauty without wanting to get them undressed.
The sudden flock of models and crew members backstage let us know that the show is over and everyone is packing up their belongings ready to head out. The biddings are passed over to the board members to auction each item of clothing off to the highest bidder, but crew aren’t expected to stay around, which I’m glad about. I’m exhausted from walking the fashion show, and I want nothing more than to go home and lounge on the couch.
“Come on,” Clark says as he holds a hand out, “I’ll take you home.”
10
Tristan
“Tristan! Nathaniel! Come take a seat in the VIP lounge. We’ve reserved only the best seats for our founders.” A young redhead dressed in a pure white suit holds out a programme to us both, while pointing towards a booth higher up than the rest of the seating.
I follow where her hand is pointing to, making my way up the carpeted stairs to a booth labelled ‘De Santos’. There are four seats placed within the booth, and a beverage fridge with different branded beers. We both take a seat, leaving an empty seat either side of us.
