The note appeared on the fridge sometime after Maria left for work that morning. Simple black ink on a torn scrap of paper, magnet pinning it at eye level so she couldn’t miss it when she reached for the creamer.
Tonight. Kitchen. Midnight. Wear nothing you don’t want ruined.
Her stomach flipped. Heat pooled low in her belly before she even finished reading. She stared at the words until the paper blurred, pulse hammering in her throat. All day the message burned behind her eyes—through meetings, through the commute, through the slow crawl of rush-hour traffic. By evening the anticipation had turned sharp, almost painful. She showered longer than necessary, letting the hot water beat against her skin until it pinked, then stood naked in front of her mirror and considered her options.
In
