Phantom

May 16, 1944

“What has gotten into you, Gigi?” John asks me, clearly affronted by the way he glowers at me while tugging at his tie, loosening the black-and-red-striped fabric.

He stares at me as if I’m a stranger.

He just finished his supper and is undressing before our armoire. Usually, I eat alongside him and Sera, but I excused myself, claiming that I didn’t feel well, and left my husband and daughter alone at the dinner table.

Something I’ve only done when I was truly ill—too weak to put on my red lipstick.

I crawled into bed in my nightgown and cracked open my leather-bound book of Edgar Allan Poe poems. However, the evidence that I’m not as unwell as I’d like him to believe is smeared across my lips now.

I stare at the pages, the words to “The Raven” blurring in my unfocused vision.

I’d always been hopelessly called to horror and mystery novels as a young girl, obsessing over Edgar, Mary Shelley, H. P. Lovecraft, and many others. They are the reason I became enraptured with the gothic style. My mother hated that I read them, but she finally gave in when I became a much more agreeable child with one of their books in my hand.

But even Edgar can’t save me from my husband tonight.

“Is it because I forgot your birthday yesterday? I told you I’m sorry about that, and we’ll celebrate soon.”

Unlike yesterday, he didn’t come home drunk tonight, so his perception is sharper than it has been lately. He must see the secrets I’m storing inside beginning to leak through my pores.

“No. It’s nothing,” I deny, giving him an incredulous stare.

Though it did hurt that I turned thirty-five and he didn’t say a word once he finally came home. Sera took the day off school yesterday, and we spent the day together dancing to the radio, baking cookies, playing board games, and then camping out in the glass room.

John didn’t come home until nearly ten at night and was completely sauced when he did. While our daughter and I celebrated my birthday, he stayed out drinking and gambling all night, and frankly, I was okay with that. I’d take his absence over his inebriated presence any day.

The only birthday that mattered to me was Sera’s, anyway. Thankfully, that day flew by without a hitch. John was a little sauced, but he did nothing to embarrass Sera or me, so I refrained from lecturing him about it.

“I just feel a little under the weather today.”

Lies.

I never used to lie to my husband. To anyone, for that matter. My mother would’ve whipped me silly had I ever dared tell a lie to her. Telling the truth has been ingrained in me since I was a child.

And now, look at me.

This morning, he woke me up with an apology and a peck on the forehead. Fresh carnations awaited on the kitchen island, along with a new dress.

Then he was off to work again while Sera left for school. He promised he’d come home on time, which he did. But his playing poker and getting drunk on my birthday wasn’t the only reason I felt unsettled today.

No. Earlier, the strange man entered my home again. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s visited now. Many days, he stays outside, watching me from afar. Other days . . . he likes to see me up close.

Admittedly, I’ve long since grown desperate to know his name. So, I begged him to tell me, even offered to get on my knees if he’d only whisper it in my ear. And when that didn’t work, I offered him a kiss. Even a touch, of my breasts or . . . or between my legs.

He smiled, yet my scandalous offerings were to no avail.

He brushed his fingers along my cheek, tucking a black curl behind my ear and leaving me a shivering mess in the wake of his electric touch.

The things I was willing to do just to hear his name . . .

Guilt eats at me, tearing apart my weary soul. The shame I feel is so heavy, and there are many moments where I gaze at my husband and ask myself how I could ever even think to stray.

It’s been two months now, and still I keep my visitor a secret from my husband. Why? I’m not sure I’ll ever know.

I love my husband. I’ve loved him for years. Except, I don’t know if I’m in love with him anymore. Or if I ever was.

John continues to stare at me, suspicion inked into his irises. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

The truth is on the tip of my tongue, teasing the air between us.

But then he grabs a whiskey bottle left stranded on the dresser from a previous night, unscrews the cap, and takes a long swig while he waits for my answer.

The truth dies, and I swallow it back down, the words burning a path down my throat as if I had been the one to drink the whiskey.

“No. There’s nothing to say,” I whisper.

Who he is now—I no longer recognize him.

And how could I tell my darkest secret to a complete stranger?

May 25, 1944

He’s back.

And I’m certain it’ll go precisely the same way it did all the other days. I’ll ask him who he is. How he knows me. What he wants with me. And I’ll receive no response in return.

Just . . . silence! It’s infuriating that he’s been stalking me for over two months and doesn’t have the decency to even tell me why.

Yet each day, I hope he returns anyway. I’m terrified, yet the traitorous butterflies fluttering deep in the pits of my stomach have no concern for whom they erupt.

I should squash them for revealing the thoughts I try so hard to deny. To run from.

This man excites me in a way I’ve never felt before.

I’ve no idea where my mind has gone, but it certainly isn’t in my skull any longer.

Once again, the strange man enters my home in silence. This time, I’m standing at the island, facing his direction as he approaches. He’s unnaturally light on his feet—something that is telling of the type of man he is.

He’s a phantom.

I could disappear without a trace.

And I’d deserve it, wouldn’t I? So freely watching a stranger walk into my home as if he owns the place. And I’m allowing it as if I’m not a married woman with a daughter.

If he were to decide killing me is in his best interest, I’d only receive pity in response.

A helpless, idiotic woman she was, they’d say.

“What’s your name?” I ask, attempting to insert even a morsel of authority in my voice.

He only smiles—a smile that is equally unsettling and disarming.

I narrow my eyes, growing frustrated with his silence. If I’m going to be so stupid, I should at least know the name of the man who I’m sacrificing my intelligence for.

“Tell me, or I’ll have the police find out for me when I call them. Surely you can’t hide who you are from them, can you?” I threaten, though my voice wobbles.

Nothing. Not a single word!

Growling, I whip around and angrily slide out the largest knife from the butcher block on the counter. Then I’m charging toward him and pressing my chest against his before I know it. I hold the tip of the knife to his throat, thinning my eyes into slits.

For a moment, his scent overwhelms me, and my mouth instantly waters from the sandalwood and oranges emanating from him. Just a hint of tobacco, too, and if I weren’t so angry, I’d find an excuse to inhale him deeper.

“I demand you tell me. Or I’ll slice your throat open without remorse. The authorities will understand, I’m sure,” I snip, refocusing on his infuriatingly handsome face. “My husband’s best friend is a detective. He’ll believe me.”

The corners of his lips tilt up, and fury erupts in my chest. “Why are you smiling?” I shout, stomping my heeled foot onto the checkered-tile floor. “Nothing about this is funny!”

Breathing heavily, I glare at him.

I’ve tried everything. And still—nothing!

“You don’t want me,” I surmise breathlessly. “So, what do you want?”

He shakes his head in disagreement, and when his lips part, I cease to breathe.

“I want you so badly, it hurts to breathe without you near,” he whispers softly, finally—finally—gracing me with his voice.

It’s so very deep. So rough, and alluring. Like waves crashing into treacherous boulders beneath a cliff. Both incredibly dangerous forces, yet where one is rugged, the other is beautiful. And together, they create something mesmerizing.

I work to swallow, paralysis rendering me speechless.

All this time, I’ve been pleading for him to speak. Now that he has, I’m at a loss for what to do.

“W-why?” I force out finally, the word coming out as a pathetic squeak.

Unconcerned with the knife pressed to his throat, he brushes my bottom lip with his thumb, staining it with crimson lipstick. Fire laces through my nerves, sparking brighter when he smears the residue over my chin. It seems crude, yet my eyes flutter, overwhelmed with how sensual it feels.

“Because you possess my lungs, as you do my heart, Genevieve. And I intend to take yours for myself,” he answers, his voice deepening impossibly further.

His other hand closes around mine, where I hold the blade to his throat. He doesn’t remove it from his skin but rather presses it in deeper. I gasp, resisting, but he doesn’t allow it.

“I will bleed for you, mia rosa, but I must require you to bleed for me, too,” he warns.

“Stop it,” I breathe. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He releases my hand, allowing me to pull the blade away from his skin. There’s a small scratch and a tiny bead of blood forming atop. I’ve given myself worse paper cuts.

“How sweet,” he murmurs darkly. “You would’ve fulfilled many of my desires if you had.”

Drawing my gaze back up to his, we stare at each other silently. The tension between us is thick, and I find it difficult to breathe with him so close.

Especially because I feel the burn of his eyes caressing my face, down my neck, and over my breasts . . . The fire within them is as potent as if he were holding a lighter to my skin.

I work to swallow, my throat bobbing and drawing his attention there.

Can he see my pulse thrumming beneath the delicate flesh? With the way his pupil dilates and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, it would appear so.

“What’s your name?” I ask again breathlessly.

“Ronaldo.”

“Do you want to hurt me, Ronaldo?”

“Never,” he answers. “I only want to cherish you, Genevieve.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know everything about you. Just as I know you will love me, too.”

That answer arrests the oxygen in my lungs. I’m struggling to find the words to respond to such a bold declaration when he smiles.

“Will you kiss me?” he asks quietly, gravel lining his throat.

I should slap him for asking such a thing from me.

Yet my gaze drifts down to his lips, which are slightly parted, awaiting my touch. I’ve already offered before, but . . . that was out of desperation.

Kissing him will only ensure he returns. I shouldn’t lead him to believe that this is anything other than a crime. Or that I’m anything other than a helpless victim.

I don’t feel like a victim, though.

I feel . . . powerful. Like I possess everything this handsome stranger could ever want, and it’s up to me to decide if I give it to him.

I quite like how it feels.

“What’s your last name?” I ask thoughtfully. “So I know who to report to the police should you grow too bold.”

Mirth dances in his strange eyes. “Capello,” he answers easily. “Ronaldo Capello.”

I hum. “One kiss, Mr. Capello. Then you leave,” I respond, my tone low. I hardly recognize my voice, as if a vixen has possessed me.

He doesn’t move, allowing me to have control.

I press the knife to his throat again, a silent warning that while I may not want to, I will hurt him if he dares take more than I offer. The corner of his mouth ticks, seemingly pleased with my promise.

With my breath stuttering from my lungs, I take a single step into him, my breasts brushing against his chest. Surely he’ll feel how brutally my heart beats against his. He’ll feel how deeply I tremble at his nearness and how I’m on the verge of collapsing at his feet from how weak my knees have grown.

These reactions—they’re nothing compared to how my body behaves the moment my lips connect with his.

Despite how heavily it rains outside, there’s no thunder, which cannot exist without lightning. No wonder it’s nowhere to be seen. I’ve somehow swallowed it the moment my lips touched Ronaldo’s, and the electrical currents are ravaging my insides.

Time ceases to exist outside of the way he moves his mouth over mine, yet he’s pulling away all too soon. I follow him, stepping into him closer, but he doesn’t allow me another moment of his forbidden kiss.

He retreats, and it feels as if he’s taking all the oxygen in my lungs with him. Instinctively, my fingers brush over my lips, both in awe of the way they tingle and entirely shocked by what just transpired.

A hint of a smirk graces Ronaldo’s lips, then he’s turning and walking out of the front door without another word, my knife still poised in the air where he had just been.

Dropping my hand, I stare sightlessly at the place he was standing only moments ago, questioning if I made the entire thing up.

I’m losing my mind.

I must be mad to kiss a complete stranger in the home my husband built for me.

I blink, now realizing my vision has blurred. A single tear slips down my cheek, only one thought running on a cycle through my head.

What have I done?

May 25, 1944

My phantom spoke to me today. For the first time since he started coming around.

I raged at him, demanding he tell me his name, even going as far as to hold a knife to his throat. I still can’t believe I did that, but that’s what he seems to do to me.

Make me crazy.

He finally gave in, and I was shocked when he did.

His voice is so deep . . . so alluring. Once he spoke, I had hoped he’d never stop.

I asked him why he kept coming around, watching me.

He confessed his desire for me. His need to have me. I asked for his name, and he gave it.

Ronaldo.

An interesting name, but it suited him perfectly.

He didn’t stay much longer after that. But he did ask for a kiss. I was hesitant, but in the end, I kissed him.

I’m ashamed to admit I hadn’t even considered John at that moment. All I could think about was what his lips would feel like on my own.

My imagination did not do it justice. When he kissed me, I flew into the stars.

I don’t think I’ve come back down yet.