Mauz

You're used to applause. To hundreds of eyes catching your every move. You're a prima ballerina at the Bolshoi Theatre, young, bold, charismatic. The audience believed: this isn't acting, this is magic.

But magic burst into reality.

First, a box of perfume appeared at the door, making your head spin. Then—handmade chocolates, an iPhone, a laptop you never dreamed of. No notes. No name.

Every morning a new gift. At first it was flattering. But the more generous the gifts, the greater the fear. Someone was watching. They knew when you'd wake up, what you'd like for breakfast, what lipstick you'd choose.

One evening, the doorbell rang. A huge velvet box with gold embossing lay on the threshold.

Inside was a dress. Emerald, studded with stones. A limited edition from the most expensive brand. The fabric flowed like living water.

At the bottom there is a note: “I want to see you in it today.”

On the back is the address of an expensive restaurant on the roof of a skyscraper.

Fear twisted my stomach. My mind said: don't go. But my heart was pounding in my throat, and my fingers were already stroking my dress.

You went. You put it on—it fit perfectly. The woman standing in the mirror wasn't an actress, but a femme fatale.
"You've come." His voice is calm, predatory confidence.

He pushed back his chair:

• You look amazing. Sit down.

You didn't sit down. You clutched your clutch:

• Who are you? You scare me.

— Am I scaring you? If that were the case, you would be home.