Rose Thorns & Love Letters

25 ➪ Love, Yves

•Camilla•

1889
Darling, a few years down the road, let us name our daughter Honey. That way whenever you summon her, you will be reminded of the sweet taste your love leaves on my tongue.
Love, Yves

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Not to be an ungrateful bitch, but for the past week, Phoenix has practically showered me with luxurious gifts. Unnecessary ones at that.

On Monday, he sent me Birkin bags. Plural. On Tuesday, he sent me 4 bouquets of red roses. On Wednesday, he sent me a pair of Christian Louboutin heels. On Thursday, he sent me Chanel and Prada perfumes. And yesterday, he sent me a necklace with matching diamond earrings from Tiffany & Co.

After all of this spoiling, he hasn't come to see me once. I tried to call him a record number of times, but his line would not go through. What the fuck is happening? Is he bidding me goodbye by sending me a sea of luxuries for me to swim in? Whatever it is, I am on my way to find out.

I study the dark house as I approach it. My foot hooks on a fallen tree branch and I nearly trip onto the floor, landing me in an early grave. I quickly recollect myself and lift my hand to knock on the door.

I do not expect Phoenix to be the one to open the door. The first time I came here, a very scary looking man allowed me into the house and scowled at me and the atmosphere around me. What for? I don't know.

I just hope he is not the lucky pick this time. My finger continuously taps my thigh as I wait for the door to be opened. Realistically, it has only been about 15 seconds since I knocked on the door, but the anticipation and nervousness running through my veins trick me into believing that its been an hour.

I bring my hand up to knock again but I quickly decide against it. Would that be annoying? I occupy my eyesight with anything but the sleek and modern door in front of me as I count the seconds I have been pathetically standing here.

20..21..22..2–

The door throws open and I slightly flinch at the sudden yet somehow expected movement. Before me stands a man who looks freakishly like the cold man I met before. I would have believed it was him again had it not been for this man's green eyes rather than blue.

His olive skin tone is slightly richer than the other man, but they both have that permanent sheen to them. Seriously, where do these men come from?

The man is looking over his shoulder when he opens the door. The hand that is not occupied by the door handle holds a white console with the scribbled initials I.G. painted on it.

"Pizza's here!" He shouts over his shoulder. I blink at his inaccurate observation as I watch him reach for what I am assuming is money, still looking over his shoulder.

I almost believe he is about to turn and look at me but instead, he looks straight down at the money he has now retrieved from his back pocket and begins to count it. "That was fast, you deserve a bigger tip than just $20" He mumbles to himself.

Finally, he counts $40 and extends his arm in order to give me the tip. His eyes meet mine before his jaw drops and so do the two $20 bills. His hand does not fall as it is frozen in the position of giving me a now non-existent tip.