Delivery For You, Ma’am

LIV

You want to know what actual psychological torture feels like?

It isn’t being locked in a dark room.

It’s sitting in the heated passenger seat of a luxury car, listening to soft jazz, while the name of your boyfriend’s secret woman beats against the inside of your skull.

I stare out the window at the passing streetlights, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my coat.

Roxy.

Roxy.

Roxy.

The name repeats in my head like a skipping record. It is loud enough that I’m genuinely terrified Ben can hear it echoing over the low hum of the radio.

I open my mouth, the question sitting right on the tip of my tongue. All I have to do is say it.

Ben, who is Roxy?

But my throat tightens, and the words choke before they reach the air.

Because if I ask him, I’m admitting that some terrifying stranger in a coffee shop got under my skin. I’m making the note real.

And worse, I’m risking blowing up my two-year relationship over a single name on a screen.

I swallow the question down and keep my eyes glued to the glass.

"I hope my favorite writer isn't too exhausted," Ben says, his voice a warm, soothing rumble in the quiet cabin. "You're supposed to be finishing your manuscript, not slinging lattes all day for your sister."

"It wasn't too bad," I manage, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears.

"Gia was certainly in rare form tonight," he remarks, shaking his head slightly. "I know you guys have been best friends forever, Liv, but I’m always surprised by how much you tolerate her... lack of boundaries."

I glance over at him. His brow is slightly furrowed, just the right amount of put-off by Gia's mesh top.

He isn't a fan of people like that.

He’s conservative. Traditional. He likes things quiet, polite, and put-together.

God, I love him for that.

Seeing his mild distaste for my best friend's wild lifestyle acts like a soothing balm over my raw nerves.

A man who gets uncomfortable around a lace bralette is definitely not frequenting an underground mafia strip club.

Ben reaches across the center console. He pulls my freezing hand out of my coat pocket, laces his long fingers through mine, and rests our joined hands on my thigh.

I didn't even realize my fingers were trembling until his grip steadies them. The familiar warmth of his skin seeps into mine.

"No weirdos gave you a hard time today?" he asks, his thumb stroking a slow circle over the back of my hand. "I know you hate dealing with the general public. You never stop reminding me how crazy people can be."

I swallow the thick lump in my throat.

Just one cartel-looking guy with bruised knuckles dropping your secret woman’s name on a napkin. No big deal.

"Just college kids," I lie smoothly.

Ben hums in approval. "Good. Oh, by the way, Julian texted me this morning. Said he's coming to town this weekend."

"Yeah. He told me, too."

"Honestly, the way your brother left last year, you’d think he was never planning to show his face around here again. But you know Julian. Always unpredictable."

"Right," I echo quietly. "Unpredictable."

By the time we pull into the underground parking garage of my apartment building, my heart rate has almost returned to normal.

We ride the elevator up in comfortable silence.

The second I unlock my front door and step inside, Ben sets the bag of Thai food on the entryway console table. He shrugs off his navy coat, hanging it neatly on the brass hook instead of tossing it over a chair.

I lean back against the closed door, just watching him.

His jaw is relaxed. His eyes are warm and clear. He looks every inch the steady, devoted man I’ve loved for two years.

Roxy has to be a coworker.

Maybe a freelance editor at his publishing house. Or an accountant.

Wait… what if Roxy is a custom jeweler?

A sudden spark of hope flares in my chest.

That would explain everything.

If Roxy is the woman designing my engagement ring, of course his jaw locked when she called with me standing two feet away!

He had to decline it so I wouldn't get suspicious and ruin the surprise.

It’s a coincidence.

A stupid, terrifying coincidence.

It has to be.

Ben turns around and catches me staring.

A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. He takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us.

"If you keep staring at me like that, Liv, you’re going to make it very hard for me to hold back."

My breath catches. "I'm just looking at you."

"Well," he murmurs, stepping right into my personal space. "Keep looking."

His hands settle on my waist, turning me slightly until my back presses flush against the wooden door.

Then his mouth comes down on mine, warm and familiar.

I kiss him back, letting out a soft sigh as his palms slide up my sides, his thumbs tracing the curve of my ribs.

It feels safe. It feels like it always does.

Ben pulls back just enough to look down at me, his hazel eyes darkening.

His fingers move to the top button of my blouse, unfastening it with ease. He dips his head to kiss my jaw, his breath hot against my neck as he slips the second button free.

My breath catches again.

Only this time, it isn't from Ben.

Without warning, a sudden, violent flash of the man in the coffee shop hijacks my brain.

The cold, calculating blue stare, the scarred knuckle, the way he slowly dragged his thumb across his bottom lip while looking straight into my soul.

My entire body goes rigid.

I plant my palms flat against Ben’s chest. "Ben..."

He stops instantaneously. His hands drop away from my blouse.

He doesn't sigh. He doesn't roll his eyes or look frustrated. He just takes half a step back, reaches up, and gently re-buttons my collar, his knuckles brushing softly against my collarbone.

"I know," Ben murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to my forehead. "I'm sorry. You just look so beautiful tonight. But I promised I’d wait until our wedding night, Liv. No rush. I’m not going anywhere."

A crushing wave of guilt washes over me.

What is wrong with me?

He is the most respectful, patient man on the planet.

He is my first love, the man who is about to put a ring on my finger, and I’m letting a creepy stranger in a leather jacket poison my head.

"Thank you," I whisper, my voice thick.

Ben smiles, giving my waist one last reassuring squeeze. "Come on. Let's get this food plated before the noodles get cold."

We walk into the kitchen together.

I reach up into the cabinet to grab two ceramic plates, but before I can set them on the granite island, a harsh buzzing sound vibrates against the stone.

Ben’s phone is sitting right next to the takeout bag.

He glances down at the screen.

This time, he doesn't try to hide his reaction.

He lets out a loud, irritated groan and drags a hand down his face.

"Shit."

"What's wrong?" I ask, setting the plates down.

My stomach gives an uneasy lurch.

"It’s Marcus. One of our top-earning thriller authors."

"At nine o'clock at night? Did something happen?"

"He’s threatening to walk over his royalty split again," Ben says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "If I don't go talk him off a ledge right now, his agent says he's going to sign with Apex by morning."

The magic word.

Apex.

"Right now?" I glance at the microwave clock. 9:15 PM. "Ben, it's late."

"I know, baby. I'm so sorry."

He’s already grabbing his keys off the counter and shrugging back into his navy coat. He walks over and presses a quick kiss to my cheek.

"Eat without me. I'll drive over to his hotel, smooth things over, and come straight back. Thirty minutes, tops."

"Okay," I say softly, forcing a smile. "Drive safe."

"Always."

The front door clicks shut behind him.

Silence drops over the apartment like a blanket.

I stand frozen in the middle of my kitchen, staring at the brown paper takeout bag sitting untouched between two empty plates.

Ask Ben about Roxy. Or come to Velvet Tears at 10 PM and I’ll tell you.

9:15 PM. Just enough time for Ben to drive across downtown before ten.

No. Stop it, Liv.

I pull the crumpled café napkin out of my pocket and slowly smooth it flat against the cold granite counter.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three sharp raps echo against my front door.

I flinch so hard I nearly knock a plate off the island, my heart leaping straight into my throat.

Did Ben forget his wallet?

I hurry back to the entryway and press my eye to the brass peephole.

It isn't Ben.

Standing in my hallway is a man in a black uniform holding a long garment bag and a small velvet box.

My pulse stutters.

I unlock the deadbolt and crack the door open a few inches, keeping my foot braced against the bottom.

"Can I help you?"

"Olivia?" the courier asks.

My blood runs cold.

Nobody calls me Olivia. Not my friends, not my readers, not even the building super. Only legal documents use my full name.

"Yes," I manage to croak.

He holds out the garment bag and the box. "Delivery for you, ma'am."

He doesn't ask for a signature. He doesn't wait for a tip. The second my numb fingers take the hanger, he turns on his heel and strides briskly back toward the elevators.

I slam the door shut and throw the deadbolt, my hands shaking so hard I nearly drop the box on the hardwood floor.

Like I'm moving underwater, I carry the black garment bag into the living room and lay it flat across the sofa.

Slowly, I pull the zipper down.

Inside is a dress cut from dark, liquid-silk emerald green.

It’s breathtaking. And terrifying.

A plunging neckline, an open back, and a thigh-high slit that borders on illegal. It’s clearly couture, worth more than my monthly rent, and light-years outside my comfort zone.

I literally do not own a single piece of clothing like it.

And worse, just by looking at the waist, I know it is my exact size.

My breath hitches. I shove the silk aside and pop open the small box.

Resting on a bed of black velvet is a matte-gold keycard. Engraved in the dead center is a single weeping eye.

Velvet Tears.

Tucked directly underneath the keycard is a thick square of black cardstock.

I pick it up with trembling fingers. The exact same sharp, slash-like black handwriting from the café napkin fills the center of the card:

He told you he’d be right back, didn't he?

He's not coming back tonight.

Put the dress on.

The car is waiting downstairs.

I stare at the ink, the dead silence of my apartment roaring in my ears. Slowly, I lift my head and look at the kitchen clock.

9:22 PM.

My sweet, predictable boyfriend is gone.

And the monster from the coffee shop knows his schedule better than I do.