Reigna – Friday Night
There's a particular kind of silence I crave, the sort that hums beneath the gentle rustle of pages being turned, underneath the subtle clink of a glass meeting its coaster, and beneath the low, rhythmic thrum of a playlist that feels like it has been curated by the universe itself just for me.
Tonight, that silence envelops me perfectly.
Curled up beneath a soft, knitted blanket, my legs tucked comfortably beneath me, I rest my latest shoe sketch against my knee, the paper crinkling slightly as I shift. Beside me, a white cranberry martini sits, beads of condensation glistening against the frosted glass, creating a small pool of moisture on the table beneath it. I'm wearing one of my own creations: a sleek black heel, adorned with a rose-gold stiletto so sharp it practically glistens menacingly under the warm glow of the lamp. The other heel lies on the coffee table, resting in a provocative pose, like an unspoken warning.
This is my cherished Friday ritual: shoes, sketches, delectable snacks, and the soothing embrace of silence. No obligations, no distractions, just me and the woman reflected in the mirror across the room.
It's not that I am antisocial; I simply prefer my own company over most others. I function well as a "high-functioning introvert," designing high-end, statement footwear for women who want to command a room upon entering. Women like me.
This evening, I've crafted a design I've dubbed The Mirage. It's a stunning satin black heel with an iridescent edge that catches the light in a mesmerizing dance, shifting colors like oil on water, a shoe both dangerous and breathtaking, an illusion that captivates the gaze.
Much like the life I've meticulously constructed for myself.
Fallon owned a pair of my heels. Somewhere, she wore them into rooms I would never see. I liked that part of the work, making something intimate for a stranger, then letting it leave.
The sketch beside my glass was different. Unfinished. Unphotographed. Mine alone.
As I reach for the remote to select something atmospheric to complement the moment, perhaps a gripping crime documentary or a series focused on con artists, I'm halted mid-reach. An unsettling sensation trickles down my spine, the skin at the nape of my neck prickling with an instinctual alert.
Silence reigns. No sounds, no clatter, no footsteps. Just an all-consuming stillness, the kind that eliminates all traces of the former hum.
I glance toward the dimly lit hallway. The door is locked, just as I checked it twice before settling in. The alarm is securely set, the curtains are drawn tight. I survey the space for shadows creeping beneath them; none are there.
But this silence feels ominously different.
I murmur to myself that it's nothing, likely just the vodka coursing through my veins, heightened by creative adrenaline. I shake off the unease, readjust the blanket, and sink back deep into the plush cushions of my sofa.
The lone candle on my side table flickers bravely, its flame battling the soft breeze escaping from the AC vent. The air is thick with the sensual scent of cardamom and black pepper, warm and grounded, much like my true self when I step away from my hermit-like existence in designer pajamas. The fragrance clings to my skin, lingering in the air like a fond memory.
I bring the cool martini to my lips again, savoring the perfectly chilled mixture, the sharp tang of lime mixing with the floral notes that dance on my taste buds. This drink is my latest experiment, a blend of white cranberry, rose water, and a whisper of vodka. I name each new cocktail as I do my shoes, and this one? I've dubbed it Velvet Threat.
On the table before me, my sketchpad lies open to reveal the newest concept: a deep crimson velvet pump with a dagger-like heel, an embodiment of playfulness, perfect provocativeness, and lethal charm. It's the weapon of choice for the truly dangerous woman. I scribble a note in the corner:
For the femme fatale who never flees, she simply makes others stumble in her wake. A smirk creeps across my face. Inspiration often strikes in the strangest of ways; this is precisely why I chose to craft my life with intention, quiet, controlled, and curated. No mess, no unnecessary drama. Just excellence. Just Me.
Well, almost just Me, there's Amira, my best friend, who would undoubtedly be rolling her eyes right now, urging me to "put on some pants and go get laid already."
But tonight, solitude was my sole companion. And Amira knows to respect that.
I reach for my Kindle, scanning the open page that greets me. It's a re-read, The Silent Patient, a psychological thriller that resonates with me deeply. There's something about the protagonist's calmness that follows chaos that strikes a chord within. We all harbor secrets like hidden daggers, some simply conceal them more artfully than others.
As I shift my weight and lean into the plush throw pillows, the blanket bunches comfortably around my hips, creating a cocoon of warmth. I close my eyes for a fleeting moment, a single breath.
I can't accurately gauge how long I linger there. Thirty seconds? Or perhaps ten minutes? Time feels viscous, stretching and flowing slowly.
A subtle shift in the air catches my attention. It's not a sound, just a tangible pressure that seems to thicken the atmosphere, leaning in closer, almost as if it's observing me. I open my eyes.
Everything appears unchanged.
The same velvet heels discarded by the door, the same lipstick-stained martini glass glimmering in the soft lighting, the same golden-flecked illumination spilling from the corner lamp.
And yet.
With a deliberate motion, I sit up, scanning the room carefully. My phone rests on the charger beside the side table, the door holds its locked position, the red light blinking steadily. Nothing seems out of order; no sign of intrusion.
Still, an undeniable flutter of anxiety tightens in my chest. I shake it off, attributing my heightened pulse to an overactive imagination. A binge of crime thrillers mixed with a well-crafted cocktail can easily conjure monsters in the mind.
I stretch my legs, contemplating calling it a night when suddenly, the room seems to swim slightly. My vision drags for a split second, trailing behind my movements as if I'm moving in slow motion.
Strange.
I reach for my phone. I miss, my fingers lag, as if they've lost connection to my brain. I blink rapidly, desperately trying to reset whatever disorientation envelops me.
The last image to register is my own reflection faintly captured in the phone's screen, blurred, tilted, my eyes wide with a dawning realization that arrives too late to save me.
And then,
Darkness.