Chloe in the shower

The morning light of Saturday filters through the house with a heavy, expectant stillness. Chad is gone, the rumble of Mike’s SUV fading down the street. Cherie, tight-lipped and dressed in high-compression leggings that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, has already slipped out the front door to go joggin—a **** attempt to outrun the "traitorous" thoughts you planted.

The bathroom is a grotto of steam and expensive shampoo scents. Chloe is under the spray, the hot water drumming against her skin. She is motionless, letting the water sluice over her face, her eyes closed as she tries to cling to the fragments of her dream—the runway, the flashes, the feeling of that anonymous fan’s hands on her hips.

Her hands move over her body, but they don't seek the frantic release of last night. Instead, she’s almost clinical, tracing her own curves as if she's checking the "merchandise." She doesn't pleasure herself; she admires herself, her ego so bloated by the dream that her own touch is enough to keep her breathing shallow.

She steps out of the shower, the steam swirling around her ankles. She reaches for the mirror, her hand wiping a clear porthole through the condensation.

You gather your Essence in the corner of the room, behind her, flickering into visibility. As the glass clears, Chloe's eyes immediately dart to your reflection as she sees you.

You are standing a few feet behind her, tall and muscular, your bald head and dark goatee rendered in terrifyingly sharp detail against the white tile. For a heartbeat, there is total silence.

Chloe’s pupils dilate until her eyes are almost entirely black. A sharp, piercing intake of breath hissed through her teeth. You are no longer a text message or a vibrating toy. He is a man. A dead man. A ghost.

"Oh... god..." she chokes out.

The reality of the haunting hits her like a physical blow. The vanity of the dream is incinerated by a primal, bone-deep terror. She doesn't scream—her throat is too tight—but she fumbles for her towel, clutching it to her chest as she bolts from the bathroom, her wet feet slapping frantically against the hardwood of the hallway.

Tyler is at his desk, three monitors glowing with the house’s network traffic when the door bursts open. Chloe stands there, wrapped in a damp towel, her hair dripping onto his rug, her face pale and her chest heaving.

"Tyler! He's... he's in there! I saw him!" she gasps, pointing a trembling finger back toward the hallway. "In the mirror! He was standing right behind me! I'm not crazy, Tyler, he's actually there!"

Tyler doesn't jump. He doesn't even spin his chair around quickly. He slowly turns, a smug, relaxed confidence in his posture that makes Chloe flinch. He looks her up and down—the damp towel barely covering her, her bare shoulders glistening with water.

"Relax, Chlo," Tyler says, his voice a low, smooth drawl. He lets his gaze linger on her legs before meeting her eyes with a wicked smirk. "I told you he was real. I’ve been talking to him for days. He’s the one who gave me the idea for the confidence subliminals."

He lets out a short laugh, leaning back and lacing his hands behind his head. "And honestly? If he saw you without that towel, you probably scared him more than he scared you."

Chloe stares at him, her fear beginning to transmute into a hot, indignant flush. "You... you jerk! You think this is funny? I was naked!"

"I think you're overreacting," Tyler counters, his voice dropping into a more serious tone. "He's a fan, remember? He likes the show. So far, everything I've seen or heard from him has been to make us happier."

At this, Chloe begins to relax a little. "Or hornier," she mutter back. Tyler just smirks at her.