32. Anonymous

32

ANONYMOUS

T he cameras are hidden well enough that she doesn’t even think to look for them. I’ve watched her for months now—sometimes I think more than I’ve watched anything or anyone in my life.

Every inch of the apartment, every corner of the kitchen, is captured in high definition. I know every line of the room, the slight angle at which she tilts her head when she’s listening to someone, the way she places her glass down with a soft click as though her hands are too delicate for the world.

But tonight is different. Tonight something is actually happening. More than the usual, just a person going about her everyday life.

Her life used to be so interesting. Then it got boring. I know it hasn’t been easy for her since her husband died. Being a single parent and all, being the sole breadwinner. Plus, there was the pandemic and that really changed everything. For a lot of people. But it seems things are picking up again; it seems they are taking a turn. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.

The candles in her kitchen flicker, casting shadows that make her look almost ethereal, like she doesn’t belong here. And she doesn’t. This city was always meant to be a temporary thing, but it’s becoming a bit too permanent for my liking. What was supposed to be a few weeks has turned into three months.

The weather has turned. The leaves have fallen, and she’s still here. Why is she still here? I’d like to think it’s because she can’t let go, because she’s always had trouble letting go, but I know better.

It’s something else. Something no amount of spying has showed me yet. Regardless, I press on.

Tonight, she’s standing by the counter, her bare feet shifting slightly on the cool floor. It’s a casual stance, but everything about her movements is deliberate—graceful, calculated, almost too controlled. The kind of woman who knows exactly how to hold herself in a room. Even when she doesn’t try.

I don’t know how she does it. I don’t know why she still pulls me in after everything. I hate New York. But she’s here, so I’m here.

Tonight, she’s hosting a dinner party. A Friendsgiving, even though these people aren’t really her friends but neighbors. That’s Charlotte for you. Good at being fake.

She’s wearing a simple cocktail dress—nothing extraordinary, but to me, it’s perfect. The way her fingers delicately trace the rim of her wine glass, the way her lips press together, like she’s holding something back. She doesn’t seem to notice how much attention she draws. But I do. I always do.

I focus in on the guest standing opposite her, a man I’ve never seen before. His posture is slightly off—too relaxed, too eager. He’s leaning in a little too much, trying to engage her with a smile that’s more confident than sincere. But she’s humoring him, tilting her head just so, listening to him, eyes wide and unblinking. There’s a soft tension in the air between them, something unspoken but undeniably there.

She offers him a polite smile as he shakes her hand, and it’s like watching a performance. She’s always performing, always in control, but with him—it’s different. I see it in the way she angles her body toward him, the way she tilts her head as if she’s curious. Not in the usual, calculated way she does with others—no, this is genuine. This is new.

And I know right then he’s not going to be like the others. Not like the men who’ve come in and out of her life. I can tell from the set of his jaw that he’s aware of her power, of the quiet magnetism she exudes. And I can see she’s aware of it too. She always knows.

They’re laughing about something—probably trivial—but there’s a palpable chemistry between them that unsettles me. His laugh is too loud, his gestures too broad, trying too hard. She’s amused, though, genuinely so.

It’s the way she looks at him It’s subtle—imperceptible to anyone else—but I see it. She’s intrigued. Interested. The way her gaze lingers on him is something I rarely see. She’s invested.

It hasn’t even been five minutes. Women.

I zoom in closer, my eyes tracing the way her fingers curl around her glass, the faint shift in her posture as she leans slightly toward him. She doesn’t touch him. Not yet. But she might. She might.

She most definitely will.

My finger hovers over the screen, and I pause the video feed for a moment, letting the silence settle in my chest like a knot. I can’t stop watching. Something in me twists uncomfortably. It’s not jealousy, no. It’s something else. A dark curiosity. The need to see this play out. To know how far she’s willing to go.

When I press play, they’re talking again, the words lost to me. His laugh rings out, and she smiles, her eyes bright, unguarded. It’s an expression I haven’t seen on her in years—genuine enjoyment. For him. Not for me.

She takes a step back, glancing down at her phone briefly, then back at him. I wonder if she’s lost herself in him yet. If she can even remember what it feels like to be wanted by someone without playing the game. She knows how to make men crave her. How to make them feel like they’re the only ones who matter.

But there’s something different about this one. He’s not like the others. He’s too sure of himself. Too self-contained, in a way that makes him dangerous. He doesn’t need her to make a move. But she will. She always does.

I see it in the way she adjusts her posture again to match his, the subtle shift of her hips, how she touches her hair just a little too casually. She’s playing the game. She’s inviting him to play with her. She’s still working out the rules.

He steps closer. The space between them narrows. There’s a flash of something in his eyes—something possessive.

But Charlotte, with all her curated charm, doesn’t pull away. She leans in, just enough to test the waters, to see how far she can push, to see how far he’ll go. And when she smiles—when she really smiles—there’s something unsettling in it. Something almost too welcoming. Too inviting. She doesn’t see the danger, or maybe she does and she just doesn’t care.

I can feel my pulse quicken, my breath hitch. It’s not just her smile that has me fixated—it’s the way she makes him feel like he’s the only one who matters. And that motherfucker believes it.

They stand there for a few moments, her apartment full of people, but it’s as though they’ve forgotten about everyone else. It’s just the two of them now, suspended in this quiet, intense bubble. He reaches out, brushing his fingertips against her wrist in a gesture that’s too bold for someone who isn’t already certain of his place in her world.

She doesn’t recoil.

Instead, she lets the touch linger. And then, almost imperceptibly, her body shifts forward again, aligning with his in that familiar dance I’ve watched her perform countless times before. The magnetism between them is undeniable. It’s so raw, so charged, that it practically jumps through the fucking screen. I might kill her. I will definitely kill him.

Most likely, I’m not going to kill anyone.

She can’t be this stupid. Can she?

My grip tightens on my phone. I’m just about to chuck it at the wall. But I can’t. Not yet. I have to know.

What’s she going to do next?

Her lips part as if she’s about to speak. My heart stutters in my chest. There’s something darkly intoxicating about this moment, watching her— waiting to see what she’ll do. What she’ll let happen. How far she’s going to take this.

It’s almost too much.

But I can’t stop watching.

And just before she opens her mouth, just before she makes the choice, her daughter wanders into the kitchen.

Charlotte pulls away, the moment ruptured, like a balloon popping in slow motion. The spell is broken. She gives the man a quick smile, but her attention has already shifted. He stands there, awkward now, unsure of how to re-enter the scene, but she’s already moved on.

Her daughter speaks to her, and Charlotte, without missing a beat, answers her, her voice soft, controlled, back to the mother she has been for so long, where her kids come first, her job not included.

But I saw it. That crack. That brief, fleeting moment where she almost let herself go.

And I’ll be waiting.

Waiting for the next time.

Because it’s only a matter of time before she lets it happen again.