"Follow Me: The Awakening"

Around her, the rooftop lounge hummed seductively, bathed in a warm golden glow of candlelight and vintage chandeliers.

Smooth jazz curled lazily through velvet-draped corners, brushing intimately against the murmured conversations of people who knew exactly how loudly to laugh, exactly how long to hold a gaze.

Anastasia crossed one slim leg smoothly over the other, emerald delicate fabric whispering gently as it pooled sensually around porcelain thighs, hugging the delicate contours of her hips.
The fabric shimmered faintly beneath candlelight, accentuating toned curves with effortless grace.

Platinum-blonde waves framed delicate features, brushing softly against bare shoulders, perfectly framing her luminous complexion and deep-blue eyes—cool, unreadable, captivating.

Men watched her without even realizing it, drawn helplessly toward something quietly magnetic, something they couldn’t name.

Anastasia knew why.

She had created it carefully, deliberately — effortless perfection was her brand, her digital DNA.

Her phone vibrated gently, the faint hum startlingly intrusive in its persistence.

She let it rest for a moment, savoring the subtle control before curiosity overcame composure.

Her fingers brushed lightly against the smooth screen, a notification flickering urgently beneath polished fingertips:

New post uploaded.

Her breath caught sharply, just for a fraction of a second.

She hadn’t posted anything.

She exhaled slowly, a practiced calm slipping instantly into place.

Her thumb tapped softly against the notification, anxiety threading quietly beneath her carefully composed exterior.

Her profile loaded smoothly.

The image was stunning, precisely her style — warm candlelight, flawless framing, head tilted gently as if she held a secret on her perfectly parted lips.

But she was wearing red.

Anastasia’s pulse skipped sharply beneath her luminous complexion.

Red delicate fabric clung provocatively to her curves — an exquisite, deliberate seduction, entirely wrong.

She never wore red.

It was impulsive, reckless, demanding attention.

Everything Anastasia carefully avoided.

A comment appeared beneath the post:
I remember this night.
But you were wearing blue.

Her breath stalled sharply in her chest.

She blinked—the comment vanished.

The photo disappeared.

Impossible.

Her phone buzzed again, this time Mila’s name flashing sharply against the dim screen:
You post that? Because if not, we have a problem.

Anastasia’s gaze flicked instantly across the room toward Mila, who leaned casually against the polished wood bar.

Mila’s black lace slip dress clung dangerously high, barely covering toned thighs, teasing smooth golden skin beneath a cascade of careless dark waves.
Hazel-green eyes, usually teasing beneath dark lashes, were suddenly serious — sharp, focused intently on Anastasia.

Anastasia’s pulse quickened subtly.

Another vibration—this one from Eve:
Check your drafts.
Something isn’t right.

She hesitated, heart hammering faintly beneath delicate fabric.

She opened the drafts slowly, breath catching sharply.

The photo reappeared instantly — the crimson dress again, provocative, delicate fabric wrapped sensually around curves she would never have chosen to reveal.

Now, behind her, a shadowy figure stood unmistakably out of focus, watching intently, utterly out of place.

Her throat tightened painfully.

Something primal, unfamiliar, twisted beneath carefully maintained composure.

Fear.

Her phone vibrated sharply once more — Mila again, urgent now:
That’s not even the worst part.

A link appeared below.

A video file.

Anastasia’s fingertips quivered slightly over the screen, internal panic brushing against practiced elegance.

You don’t have to watch, she told herself silently.

But curiosity burned fiercely, irresistible, dangerous.

She pressed play.

The footage loaded, grainy hotel carpeting illuminated beneath dim hallway lights.

A timestamp — two weeks ago.

A woman walked toward an elevator, platinum hair shimmering under soft lighting, long legs extending elegantly from beneath a fitted black dress.

Unmistakably Anastasia.

Yet she didn’t remember this night.

The camera shifted slightly—a man appeared.

Tall, confident, suit impeccably tailored.

He moved close, fingertips pressing intimately against the small of her back, guiding her forward possessively, familiarly.
She never turned to look at him, but as the elevator doors opened, golden panels reflected her expression clearly for one heart-stopping instant.

She was smiling.

The screen flickered to black.

Anastasia’s stomach twisted violently, delicate fabric tightening subtly around her curves as she struggled silently for breath.

Another vibration shattered composure:
Eve: Anastasia.
Who is he?
Her fingertips curled tightly around the device, heart racing.
She didn’t know.

But closing her eyes, she swore she felt fingertips ghost against bare skin, breath brushing her neck—intimate, possessive, utterly unfamiliar.

Her hands quivered subtly as a final message flashed—anonymous, starkly terrifying:
Unknown: I see you.

The ice cracked suddenly in her forgotten drink, jolting her sharply back to reality.

Mila and Eve were watching her now — both sharply focused, clearly sensing something deeply wrong.

Anastasia set her phone down slowly, deliberately face-down, heart hammering beneath emerald delicate fabric.

The city hummed softly beneath her, music still drifting lazily, everything externally perfect, controlled.

Except it wasn’t.

In the ornate gold-framed mirror across the lounge, Anastasia’s reflection still held her phone.
It smiled softly, knowingly, intimately — a moment too early, a heartbeat before Anastasia herself moved.

She hesitated before stepping closer, as though an unseen force held her back. The reflection still followed, but something deeper lurked in its gaze — a knowing, intimate presence she couldn’t name.