ILLICIT PASTRIES

Paranoia

Luca

Paranoia.

It sat in my chest like a coiled snake, ever-tightening with every passing day.

I hadn’t been the same since that night, the one where I spotted the car tailing me, shadowing my turns, slowing when I slowed. It had only been a week, but it felt like a lifetime of looking over my shoulder.

I wasn’t careless. My doors were locked. Antonio, my driver, never strayed far. My morning jogs had been traded for the in-home gym and pool. I had routines, security measures, and I trusted them.

But none of that explained the box that had been waiting for me in my office.

The moment I saw it sitting on my desk, a neat little thing wrapped in plain brown paper, I felt it in my bones. Something was off.

I stepped closer, slow and wary, before carefully peeling back the wrapping. Inside, nestled in crisp white parchment, were biscuits. My favorite biscuits.

A sliver of unease sliced through me.

I reached for the folded note tucked beneath them, fingers steady but mind racing. Only a single sentence was written in elegant, flowing French.

“Nous espérons que vous les apprécierez.”

I stared at the words, my skin crawling.

I didn’t need to ask my employees if they knew where it came from, but I did anyway. Each response was the same blank expressions, furrowed brows, confused shrugs.

No one had seen who delivered it. No one had touched it.

I threw the biscuits in the trash the moment I got home.

The next day, I got flowers.

A bouquet of blue hyacinths, delicate and fragrant. Beautiful. But my hands didn’t shake because of their beauty.

They shook because I was a florist.

I ran my own tattoo shop now and there was also my bakery/pastry shop, but flowers had been my world for years. That wasn’t information most people had access to.

Antonio found me staring at the arrangement, my stomach twisted into knots.

“Boss?” he asked, his voice edged with concern.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I picked up the small, unsigned card tucked between the petals and flipped it over.

Nothing.

No name. No message.

Just another gift.

“Get rid of them,” I muttered, shoving the bouquet into Antonio’s hands before retreating to my apartment.

I was being watched.

I knew I was being watched.

And if that wasn’t enough, the next thing that happened almost made my heart stop.

It was just a small knife. A practical thing I kept beside my bed after I had spoken to my mother about my troubles and she made me promise to carry it just in case there was ever a need for it. Not particularly large, but enough to make me feel safe.

And one morning, it was gone.

I tore my bedroom apart searching for it, knowing, knowing I hadn’t misplaced it. It had been in its usual spot on my nightstand the night before.

I stood there, fists clenched at my sides, my pulse hammering against my throat.

Then came the other things.

Doors I was sure I locked left cracked open.

A sock missing from its drawer.

A toothbrush replaced with the same product but in a different color.

A hairbrush gone.

Underwear missing.

A shirt I never wore hanging at the front of my closet like an invitation.

A perfume bottle I’d never bought sitting among my colognes.

Little things, small details that could have been dismissed as carelessness due to the stress of the baking tour that was slowly approaching. If I wasn’t already spiraling.

By the time two weeks passed, my paranoia was suffocating.

Sleep was a joke. I woke at odd hours just to check my doors, my windows, my locks. Ridiculous. My apartment was on the top floor. No one but me had a key card to access it. I made damn sure of that after my disgusting uncle had come unannounced and harassed me.

But none of it mattered, did it?

Because someone was still getting in.

I needed proof.

So, I set up my phone before bed, standing in front of the camera as I locked every damn door.

Then I turned to the guard stationed outside my apartment.

“Goodnight,” I said firmly, making sure my phone caught my voice.

Only then did I go to sleep.

And in the morning, when I opened my eyes, my stomach dropped.

The bathroom door was wide open.

Three toothbrushes in the holder.

A new hairbrush.

The kitchen window unlocked and open.

I shot up, grabbed my phone from my bedside table, and swiped to my videos.

Nothing.

The recording from last night was gone.

My paranoia boiled over, fury rising with it.

I wasn’t crazy.

I wasn’t imagining this.

Someone was in my apartment.

And today, I was going to the f*****g police.