Page 6 of Summoned
As I hand back the phone, his fingertips brush mine. It’s just a fleeting moment. But I’ve always had a soft spot for moments.
“See you soon, birthday girl,” he says, and disappears down the dark alley.
I head back into the club, the ground feeling steadier beneath my feet. That nagging unease from earlier has disappeared. Branimir’s appearance tonight was a nice distraction. Who knows, maybe it could even lead to something.
Unlike Boyana, I’m not searching for the man of my life, but I do enjoy male company. I have a thing for flirtation—for lingering glances and unspoken promises in a touch. For making someone lose their mind over me. Sexual desire is one of the strongest forms of control, and I love wielding it.
The prosecutor’s daughter—a mousy girl with a botched rhinoplasty, whose name I can never remember—accosts me, telling me all about her vacation in Vietnam.
Mid-way through her tirade, Boyana staggers over to me, her pitch rising above the music. “Have you seen him anywhere?”
I raise a single finger to signal the prosecutor’s daughter to pause. “Who?” I ask Boyana.
“My man! The one from the bar. I think he left.”
I shake my head and take a sip from my drink. The truth is, nothing meaningful was ever going to happen between Boyana and Branimir. And not even for the obvious reason that he’s a nine, and she’s a seven, with flattering filters and the right lighting. Boyana exudes insecurity—that clingy need to be invited for morning coffee.
“You reek of desperation, darling,” I once told her while we were applying lip gloss in the mirror of a hotel bar. “To men, that’s as bad as gonorrhea.”
I’m not sure she understood. Maybe I expect too much from her. Not everyone is meant to be at the top of the food chain. Some are made to orbit men, and to convince themselves that’s love. Meanwhile, a lioness comes and takes it all. That’s just how the world works.
You’re either a predator or prey. Actlike a predator, or crylike prey.And I’ve promised myself I’ll never cry again.
Yet, in that moment, a chill runs over my temple. A strange urge draws my attention to the corner of the room. A man stands there. The club’s flashing lights reflect off his dark clothing, but his face is hidden in shadow because of his height and the angle of the light.
“Let’s dance!” Misha grabs my wrist and pulls me onto the makeshift dance floor between the booths. The momentum carries me forward, but my muscles remain stiff. I glance back at the corner. He’s gone.
Damn it, what’s wrong with me? When did I start seeing stalkers lurking in dark corners? It must be leftover chillsfrom that horror movie Boyana and I watched at the cinema last week.
It’s my twenty-first birthday. I should be drinking and dancing, having a good time.
So, I do exactly that.
After downing two glasses of champagne in quick succession, I spend the next few hours lost in the rhythm.
* * *
During the taxi ride home, I scroll through all my social media. There are endless photos I’ve been tagged in tonight. The most popular one was posted by one of the twins with the caption:“The Queen’s getting old.”
In the shot, the twins flank me on either side, striking their signature photo-ready poses, while I, eyes half-shut, mouth slightly open, appear to be mid-sentence.Hyenas.I bet there were better photos of me they could’ve used.
The taxi pulls up outside my family’s house in Bankya. The three-story façade towers behind an ornate wrought-iron gate decorated with intricate designs. Dark stone walls blend into the French windows with black wooden frames. Soft spotlights illuminate the garden, showing off the colorful flowerbeds and manicured hedges.
At the gate, I disable the alarm on my phone and cross the yard. The grand foyer opens up before me—a two-story space featuring a sweeping staircase, sleek marble floors, and soft moonlight filtering in through tall windows. I tiptoe up the stairs.
As I pass my father’s study on the second floor, a thin line of light slips out from beneath the door. Unsurprising. My birthday has never been enough reason for him to stopworking after midnight.
My parents’ bedroom door at the end of the hall shows no signs of movement, which means Mother is probably long sedated by her usual mixture of expensive wine and silence. I’d like to say they celebrated raising a child to her twenty-first birthday, but they probably didn’t even notice it, aside from paying for the party and handing me a thick envelope with the message, “Get whatever you want for a present.”
The familiar scent of extinguished candles welcomes me when I reach my room on the third floor. Finally, I’m home.
At the far end of my personal library, in front of the drawn curtains, sits a pile of wrapped gifts. Tributes sent from media outlets, from my family’s business associates hoping to curry favor, from designers desperate to be noticed, from distant relatives who remember us on holidays, from charities seeking donations, and from anonymous admirers.
I don’t need to unwrap them to guess what’s inside. Bottles of wine, boxes of chocolates, confectionery assortments. Tomorrow, I’ll have them all distributed among the household staff and ask why they even bothered bringing them up to my room.
My attention shifts to the satin sheets on my huge bed, my impatience growing as I look forward to taking off my dress and removing my makeup. I pull the dress over my shoulders when a small leather pouch catches my eye, hidden among the gifts. It stands out against the sea of shiny ribbons and bright paper, its simplicity almost glaring.
I could swear it wasn’t there a second ago.
