I stood at the edge of the carnival grounds, shadows wrapping around me like a cloak. The vibrant colors of the tents and lights flickered in stark contrast to the dark thoughts swirling in my mind. Scarlett. Just the mention of her name sent a shiver through me that was both thrilling and infuriating.
Days had passed since I first laid eyes on her entwined with him—his smirk irking me, his hands on what was mine an assault on my senses. She screamed pleasure, and it made my blood boil hotter than any flame the carnival could offer. I had always prided myself on being calm, cool, and collected, but watching her lose herself in the arms of another man shattered that facade. It ignited a possessiveness in me that I couldn't ignore, a primal urge to reclaim what was rightfully mine.
After that night, I resolved to watch her, to toy with her emotions from the shadows. I knew she was strong-willed, independent, and used to getting her way, but I wanted to bring her to her knees—even if it meant dragging her through a world of tension, lust, and danger. It was thrilling to think about.
Under the cover of darkness, I started sending her blue roses. Each flower arrived at her hotel room, with no indication of where they had come from. It was my secret, a game I played while I watched her unravel with each delivery. The blue roses were a symbol—a taunt, a reminder that every moment spent in the company of another man would not go unpunished. I couldn't help but envision her expression as she opened the envelope with my now-familiar signature—a sharp breath, a rush of confusion, and a flicker of desire.
Days turned into weeks, and I continued the dance. I frequented the carnival, always lurking on the periphery, always letting my eyes trace her figure as she moved among the crowd. I witnessed her light up the dusk with laughter, highlighted against the backdrop of gaudy carnival games and cotton candy stands. But with every delighted scream on her lips, I felt the pang of envy stab through me. The allure of her independence only made me more intent on breaking through.
One night, I waited, watching her sip champagne, her laughter ringing like the chimes of a carousel. The sight of her, dressed in a deep crimson that hugged her curves in all the right places, made my heart race with a mix of anger and desire. As if sensing my gaze, she turned her head slightly, her eyes scanning the crowd. I leaned against the wooden railing, arms crossed, hidden from her view. I let the tension build, relished the sweetness of her confusion.
"You won't forget me," I whispered to the night, my resolve hardening.
Finally, I sent her another blue rose, this one tied with a black ribbon—an invitation with a hint of danger. I couldn't wait to see how she'd respond; hope and fear intertwining within her. Each delivery intensified our game, and soon I would make my presence known.
The carnival's atmosphere pulsed with energy, and I knew the time had come to confront her. Would she cower in the face of my darkness, or embrace the storm brewing between us? The thrill of the challenge electrified the air, and as I slipped through the crowd, I felt feverish.
I would make sure she knew who she belonged to. I would pull her back to me, tighter than a noose, until she couldn't remember what it was like to feel alive with anyone else. Because in the end, she would learn that giving away parts of herself to other men was a mistake—one that I would teach her to rectify, one way or another.