Camille

The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to my clothes as I stepped out of the hospital doors, the cool evening air a welcome relief against my skin. The past few days had blurred together—rounds, patients, endless paperwork—but no matter how busy I stayed, there was a thought that wouldn’t leave me: Rafael Serrano.

It had been just over a week since the gala, and since the night I treated his wound. I had tried to forget about him, tried to convince myself that he was just another patient who happened to need a few stitches. But nothing about that night had been normal. The way he had looked at me—calm, calculated, almost as if he was analyzing me rather than thanking me—had left a lingering unease I couldn’t shake.

And then there were the gifts. At first, it had been just flowers, arriving at my office with no fanfare but always signed with the same initials: R.S.. Then came the jewelry—a delicate gold bracelet tucked into a velvet box that had appeared on my doorstep with a simple card: Thank you for your help. –R.S.

I had tried to rationalize it. Wealthy people like Rafael Serrano didn’t think twice about extravagant gestures, I told myself. But the more I thought about it, the more unsettled I became. How had he even known where I lived? I mean he knew my apartment but how did he know ny house number?How had the gift ended up inside my apartment without me ever hearing the door?

I shook off the thought as I made my way down the street toward my apartment, the familiar comfort of routine settling over me. But even as I walked, there was something else gnawing at the edges of my consciousness—a sensation I had been trying to ignore.

The same black car had been parked across from my apartment for days. Always in the same spot. Always seemingly vacant but too perfectly placed to be a coincidence. I caught sight of it again as I rounded the corner, the sleek, dark vehicle a silent observer in the shadows.

My steps quickened, my mind running through every plausible explanation. Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe I was overthinking everything. But every fiber of my being told me otherwise.

I reached the entrance to my building, fumbling with my keys, suddenly hyper-aware of my surroundings. As soon as the door closed behind me, I leaned against it, exhaling slowly. The air in the lobby felt thick, suffocating, and my skin prickled with the sensation of being watched.

But there was no one there. Just silence.

Later that night, as I sat at the small table in my kitchen, I turned the gold bracelet over in my hands. It was beautiful—delicate yet sturdy, the kind of piece you’d expect someone like Rafael to send. But why? Why all of this for a few stitches?

I placed the bracelet back in its box and stood, pacing the length of the room, my thoughts spiraling. I had never seen anything like this from a patient before. It wasn’t just gratitude—it felt like something more, something I couldn’t put my finger on.

Just then, a sound from outside my window made me freeze. The soft rumble of an engine—familiar, consistent. I moved to the window and peeked through the blinds.

There it was again. The black car. Parked in the same spot, headlights off but engine running, barely visible under the dim streetlight.

I stepped back from the window, my heart racing. This wasn’t coincidence anymore. Someone was watching me.

I grabbed my phone, scrolling through my contacts, half-considering calling the police. But what would I even say? That I was being watched by a car that hadn’t technically done anything wrong?

I hesitated for a moment before locking the door and turning off the lights. Maybe if I ignored it, this strange situation would resolve itself. Maybe it was nothing.

*******************************

The next day at work was no different. The flowers were waiting for me again at the nurses’ station—another pristine bouquet of white roses with a simple card tucked inside: R.S.

“Wow, someone has an admirer,” one of the nurses teased, her eyes widening as she read the card. “Must be some doctor to send flowers like these.”

I forced a smile, pretending to find it as harmless as she did. But I knew better. This wasn’t some innocent gesture. This felt calculated, deliberate.

Throughout the day, I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting to find someone lurking in the shadows. But there was nothing, just my own creeping paranoia.

By the time my shift ended, the tension in my body had built to a crescendo. I hurried out of the hospital, determined to get home and lock myself inside, away from whatever strange game Rafael was playing.

But as soon as I stepped outside, I stopped short. The black car was there again, parked at the curb. And this time, the driver’s door opened.

A man in a tailored suit stepped out, his posture rigid and professional. He didn’t approach me immediately but stood by the car, his gaze fixed on me.

“Dr. Moreau,” he called out, his voice low but authoritative. “Mr. Serrano would like to offer you a ride home.”

My heart stuttered in my chest. “No, thank you,” I replied quickly, trying to sound composed. “I’m fine.”

The man’s expression didn’t waver. “Mr. Serrano insists.”

The back door of the car opened, revealing Rafael sitting in the shadows, his gaze locked on me. He was waiting, calm and composed as ever, as though he had all the time in the world.

I glanced around, hoping for some excuse to decline, but there was nothing. No way out.

Reluctantly, I walked toward the car, my steps slow and cautious. I slid into the backseat, my pulse racing as the door closed behind me.

Rafael sat beside me, his expression unreadable as he studied me in the dim light. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said after a long pause, his voice low and smooth. “I just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

“I don’t need protection,” I replied, trying to mask the tremor in my voice.

He leaned back slightly, his gaze never leaving mine. “Sometimes, safety isn’t about what you think you need. It’s about what you don’t see.”

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words settle over me like a dark cloud. There was something more to this—something I wasn’t seeing, but I could feel it, lurking just beneath the surface.

“Thank you for the gifts,” I said, trying to change the subject, even though I knew it was futile. “But they’re really not necessary.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I don’t do things out of necessity, Dr. Moreau. I do them out of appreciation.”

There was an intensity to his words, a quiet power that made my skin prickle. This wasn’t just gratitude. This was something else, something far more dangerous.

Over the next few days, the unsettling occurrences only grew worse. More gifts arrived at my apartment, each more extravagant than the last—jewelry, designer clothing, even artwork. And everywhere I went, I could feel eyes on me.

Bodyguards began appearing in places they shouldn’t have been—outside my apartment building, near the hospital entrance, even at the grocery store. They never approached me, never spoke to me, but I could see them. Watching. Waiting.

I tried to focus on my work, to bury myself in patient care and forget about everything else. But it was impossible. Rafael Serrano had quietly infiltrated my life, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake him.

It wasn’t just the gifts or the bodyguards. It was the way he made me feel—like I was caught in a web I didn’t fully understand, like he was pulling the strings, and I had no way of escaping.

Every time I saw his name, every time I thought of him, there was a strange, dark pull that I couldn’t resist. It wasn’t just fear. It was intrigue, curiosity, and something else I didn’t want to admit to myself.