The Phantom Lover by D.C. Embers

Delilah moved past the folding screen that separated her "bedroom" from the rest of the apartment, another thing that hadn't been there last night. She dragged herself over to her freezer, confused, hungover, and a little frightened. On the table—not the tray table she used as a kitchen table—someone had placed a smartphone with a little bow on top. Not her phone—her phone was a cracked Android with a dying battery. This was a brand new iPhone. Expensive. The latest model, still in its box, with a sticky note on the top of the box. It was all so odd that she didn't even notice the other boxes resting by the kitchenette. But she did notice the new security cameras mounted on the eaves, their red lights blinking. That was weird. Midwell had covered the old honeymoon cabin behind the lodge in tinfoil because he thought the government could read his mind; he was not going to put up cameras.

*Good morning, darling. Check your messages. -A*

Delilah picked up the phone with shaking hands. It turned on at her touch, face recognition already programmed. "When the fuck did this happen?" she whispered to herself, the sinking feeling that she might not be as alone in the efficiency apartment as she thought she was. Opening the messaging app, she found one conversation already started.

**Unknown:** Rise and shine, darling. I hope you slept well. Your new bed is more comfortable than that pile of laundry you were using, isn't it?

**Unknown:** Red truly does suit you, though I doubt the dye job was worth the 7,000 Dr. Harold Abner paid for that Macallan M Decanter. I'm sure he would have preferred it staining his insides rather than staining your shirt. I imagine that would be an expulsion, possibly even prosecution.

Delilah paused and took a look at the picture of Abners office her sitting on the desk a white shirt stained with the red tinted whisky that costed more then she could ever quantify in real terms. She didn't do that. Abner's office was radioactive to the entire student body. The guy's nickname was the Grim Reaper, and he wasn't called that because he was a fan of Edgar Allan Poe. But she knew someone who did. In fact, she knew exactly who would be bold enough to get drunk with expensive booze that wasn't hers. She ran back to her laptop. It was no longer glowing, but it still felt like it was zapped by the space fairies or whatever made it glow like that. She started looking around her hard drive, navigating towards the UNFINISHED folder. She scrolled to the bottom of the list, realizing just how many of her stories sat unfinished, and she found it: one of the earliest D.C. Ember stories she wrote. *The Phantom Lover*—a tale of mystery, romance, and worst of all, blackmail. She didn't know who to blame: herself for writing it, or life for allowing this to happen. Regardless, those pictures existed now, and Abner was not the kind of man not to be severe. That's why he was head disciplinarian for SUNY WolfJaw.

**Unknown:** I'd also imagine that those student loans would be crippling without the high-figure salary you are hoping for. Going forward, the choker stays on. Don't try to remove it outside of the shower, of course. It has a GPS tracker and a microphone, a powerful one. Even in its box I can hear you breathing right now.

"Fuck." Whoever this was definitely heard that.

**Unknown:** Your first rule is simple: you don't come unless I say you can. Your second rule is simpler: you wear what I provide, when I provide it. Your third rule is the simplest of all: you belong to me now, Delilah Crowley. And I'm going to teach you what that means.

**Unknown:** Welcome to your new life. Try to be a good girl today. I know it's hard for you.

**Unknown:** Oh, and Delilah? Just to make it fun for the both of us: if you can figure out my identity, I will scrub those photos from my hard drives—yes, I have more—and I will deposit enough money into your account to not only pay off your sizeable student loans, but start over *as near or as far* as your heart desires.

Delilah read the messages three times. Then she sat down—carefully—on the edge of her new bed, and tried very hard not to scream. She turned her attention to the boxes now. From the outside they were nothing more exciting than the usual brown boxes. Normally such packaging would excite her; she didn't have anyone to get gifts from… or give gifts to, for that matter, but right now she was every flavor of nervousness on the rainbow. She started with the smallest one, which she suspected had the choker. Ripping open the cardboard and tossing the remnants on the ground, she found it indeed was the choker. It was a subtle number, a simple black band with a silver heart pendant. Tapping the metal with her fingernail, she found it hollow with a crease where the electronics were inserted. "Yep, I am well and truly screwed," she grumbled, pulling her hair back and slipping the choker around her neck. It wouldn't be objectionable, as it did fit well with her overall aesthetic, but given it was forced, Delilah was going to loathe the piece of jewelry slash tracking device. Going up in size, she went to the next box, a small rectangular box, and she hated how grateful she was to see three jars of instant coffee in the box. "Did I write this part?" she asked aloud, but the tiny Thor hammering at the front of her skull didn't give her room to think all that hard. The next was much bigger, but not very heavy. Opening it was something she was not expecting, though by this point what she expected might as well not matter. A lot of this was written by her hand, and yet it felt like she was walking into this blind. The dress inside was a sultry plum silk sleek midi-length cocktail dress with a daring front zipper, its gold hardware catching the light. Black Chantilly lace insets become sheer side panels and a delicate high neckline, while the cream linen sleeves transform into billowing sheer bishop sleeves ending in fitted cuffs. The skirt falls in fluid bias-cut panels to just below the knee, slit subtly at the thigh. Paired with pointed-toe plum suede stilettos bearing minimalist gold ankle straps, and a silk camisole slip peeking at the hem. "Holy shit," tumbled out of her mouth. This was way beyond what she imagined when she typed out "red dress with a surprise in the back" during her freshman year. Then she arrived at the final box. The cardboard barrier didn't survive for very long. Then, in front of Delilah, the box sits open like a private language written in objects. Inside, a feather duster with a weighted handle rests beside pearl-white gloves and a spray bottle labeled in familiar handwriting: *For when you need to see yourself clearly.* Beneath a layer of tissue, shapes shift in velvet darkness—tools of patience, tools of denial, their specific contours left for discovery. At the bottom waits the belt, steel and silicone fitted to your measurements, its delicate internal chain designed to be felt with every movement, every attempt to forget what you wear. The key is not inside. It was never going to be inside. Folded beneath it all, the uniform waits—heavy satin shortened to brush the thigh, waist cinched with boning that would force her shoulders back, garters sewn in with no option to adjust or remove without assistance. The headband's elastic is tight enough to leave marks. There is no underwear. And she got the feeling when she looked around, she wasn't going to find any in her apartment.

Outside, the surveillance cameras turned slowly, watching everything, and somewhere in the complex, a shadowy individual poured a glass of white wine and smiled.