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I: THE POEM
JANUARY
She finds it on her way in from walking Gertrude—leash in hand and coat zipped up over her chin. The January chill has long since seeped into her bones by the time she walks up to the front door and spots it atop the milk delivery.
A red envelope with a golden wax seal. Brows furrowing, she bends to pick it up and flips it over to read the name across the front.
Her name.
It isn’t that she never gets letters—Patrick is fond of sending postcards that he finds at the shoppes. He tells her it's his way of getting her out there; letting her see the world from the safety of the Priory. He picks his favorite worldly destinations and fills the back with notes to her about his life, his thoughts, and his ideas. She never has the heart to tell him that she struggles to read his handwriting; knows it would ruin the fun of it for him.
But this letter is most definitely not from Patrick. She knows it as soon as she opens the envelope and pulls the contents out—a handwritten note and a paper with some typed lines on it, clearly covered in white out. She starts with the note, shocked when she can read it with minimal issues. It’s either written by someone still learning cursive, or by someone with her in mind. Given how thoughtful the rest of the note is, she thinks it might be the latter.
She shifts to the next piece of paper, which she now knows houses a poem, and stares at it. Stares and stares until she feels like she must be the butt of some joke. Because no one— no one— would write Taggie O’Hara a poem. She looks around, trying to see if Cait is behind a tree with a camera. But there’s no one there, and the breeze whips at her face and stings her cheeks. So she tries not to think of all the ways this could be cruel, and then she begins to read.
There are few things more fair,
Than the beauty of her face,
With sunlit red hair,
I can’t resist the chase.
Restless all day,
From dreams each night,
My world goes quite grey,
With her out of my sight.
Taggie stares down at the page and blinks once. Then again. Then once more.
This is… Romantic? She thinks to herself questioningly. She can’t believe that someone would sit down and take the time to write about her beauty and dreaming of her. It’s too surreal; it has to be a prank.
She confronts Caitlin about it at dinner, slamming the paper down on the table with a frown. Cait looks up from her bolognese, noodles dropping from her mouth as she stares up at Taggie in confusion.
“Mfsh tshesh?” She asks around a mouthful of food. Taggie’s frown only deepens, and Cait rolls her eyes. She takes a moment to chew, and then finally repeats, “What’s this?”
“You tell me.” Taggie pushes the paper towards her sister and crosses her arms as Cait begins to read. “I don’t think this is funny. It’s mean, actually.”
“It’s… a poem?” Cait looks positively lost, which only makes Taggie herself feel lost too. Cait looks up at her with her face pinched in confusion as she holds up the paper. “I don’t get it, is this for me or something?”
Taggie feels her shoulders slump as she takes the paper back and looks down at it.
“I… I thought…” She hesitates, then adds, “I thought it was you who sent it to me to be cruel.”
“Someone wrote that about you?”
“Well you don’t have to sound so shocked!” Taggie exclaims with a scowl at her sister. Cait throws her arms up in defense.
“You are the surprised one! I’m just agreeing that it’s hard to imagine.” At Taggie’s murderous expression, Caitlin rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Who wrote it?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked you if you’d written it.”
“But I—”
“What are you two arguin’ about?” Her father asks, and Taggie’s quick to shove the paper under the table.
“Nothing,” she says before Cait can disagree. Then, she turns—eyes wide and full of an unspoken threat—and waits for her sister to agree. When she finally does, Taggie feels herself relax. Daddy doesn’t need to know that Taggie has…
… A secret admirer.
The thought makes her smile. Makes her tack the poem up on her bedroom wall that night when the rest of the house is sleeping and read it before she falls asleep. Then she does it again the next night. And the next.
Until the next gift arrives.
II: THE FLOWERS
VALENTINE’S DAY
Taggie has always hated Valentine’s Day—hates the charade of it all, the desperation to show love through gifts and money. The subtle competition of who loves who more based on what they buy.
But mostly—she hates that she’s always alone.
It’s too embarrassing to admit out loud; that she’s lonely each time the day of love rolls around. She spends year after year watching happy couples stroll hand in hand out of restaurants with stars in their eyes and wonders when is it my turn for a love like that?
It never seems to come.
So when she arrives home to a collection of the most beautiful roses she’s ever seen, her first response isn’t to think this is for me. Instead, she takes the bouquet inside and places it on the counter, calling for her mother from the kitchen.
When she enters, her mother’s eyes light up. Taggie watches her take in the roses and can’t help but think I hope they’re from Daddy. Hates herself for even questioning it, but knows her mother too well.
“Well would you look at that,” Mummy says, bringing her fingers up to touch at the red petals of one of the roses. “Your father’s outdone himself this year.”
Taggie hums a noise of agreement, feeling jittery and tense at the thought that it may not be from Daddy. But the nerves quickly turn to shock when her mother picks up the card and frowns.
“It’s for… you.” She holds the card out, and Taggie realizes for the first time that the name she hadn’t bothered to check for in the beginning is actually her own. Printed across the envelope in neat pen with no frills. It’s only when she opens the card and sees the handwriting that she realizes it’s from the same person as last time.
Her secret admirer.
“Who’s it from, then?” Her mother asks tersely. Taggie suddenly feels the need to lie— to protect this piece of her life from the judgment of her mother.
“It’s from Seb,” she answers, face kept purposefully neutral. She puts the card down at her side and hopes her mother won’t press to see it.
“I thought you two went separate ways.” Not an accusation, but too close for comfort. Taggie jumps to correct her answer.
“Yeah, but I guess he just wanted to show we’re on good terms still.”
“Hm,” her mother hums, taking one last long look at the bouquet before turning and looking at Taggie with an arched brow. “That boy is undoubtedly still sweet on you. No one sends a bouquet like this platonically.”
Then she turns and leaves as though she didn’t send Taggie reeling with her words. Once she’s out of the room, Taggie rereads through the card and the message written with her in mind. Of the person who thought of her on the day made for romance—for lovers. Rereads it again and again, like it’ll reveal the sender if she just studies it enough times. Pictures dark hair and a gold pinky ring—inviting eyes that stare at her playfully and a mouth made for sin. Pictures the face like he’ll walk through the door and confess his love for her.
But he doesn’t, so she finally gives up her watching. Instead, she finds a vase and fills it with the roses and enough water to see them through the week. Then she brings them upstairs and sets them on her desk, right by the edge so they’re the first thing she’ll see when she wakes.
Then she stares unblinkingly at them until her eyes sting, and only then does she finally go back to her day—somehow, less lonely than before.
III: THE CAKE
HER BIRTHDAY
“It’s from your admirer, isn’t it?” Cait asks as she walks into the kitchen to stand beside Taggie. She cocks her head to the side and eyes the monstrous tower of sponge and buttercream in front of them. “He loves you, doesn’t he?”
“We don’t even know it’s a he,” Taggie answers, voice still dazed as she holds the note in her hand and stares at the biggest birthday cake she’s ever seen. Covered in baby blue frosting and piped white daisies, it sits at four tiers. Even her mother didn’t buy cakes this big for her elaborate parties. Along the side of two of the tiers it reads:
Happy Birthday
Agatha
“Regardless of gender, whoever it is, they’re clearly obsessed with you.” Cait stares up at the top tier of the cake as she speaks. Covered in daisies, it looks beautiful; it looks expensive. “Didn’t they send you flowers too? And that poem?”
“Yes, but—”
“What’s all this about?” Daddy says as he enters the room, whistling as he takes in the cake on the counter. “My, Tag. You went all out this year, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t—” Taggie starts, but her sister cuts her off.
“It’s from Taggie’s secret admirer.” She wiggles her brows and shimmies her shoulders suggestively. Their father turns to Taggie questioningly, and she huffs in response.
“I don’t know who sent it, but they’ve… sent some gifts before.”
Daddy’s eyebrows shoot up and Taggie cringes inside. It isn’t that she’s embarrassed; it’s that sharing this with her father makes her want to melt into the floor. But her dad doesn’t react the way she expects: protective, angry, and judgmental. Instead he offers her a smile, lips twitching from under his mustache, and bumps his shoulder into hers.
“Well, how about we get some candles in this thing and you tell me all about it after we sing?”
When she closes her eyes and blows the candles out later, she’ll realize why she wanted her father to react poorly. Because if he did, it would mean that he thought the gifts were from the one person she was wishing for—the one he’d never allow near her.
IV: THE NECKLACE
SUMMERTIME
She feels stunned as she looks down at the velvet box in her hands—absolutely shook to her core. She can’t accept this; can’t wear it. She can’t. There’s no way she deserves something so extravagant. She eyes the gold chain, dainty and thin, and the sizable gem that hangs from it. It looks like a ruby, but surely it can’t be. She can’t even begin to imagine the cost of something like that.
“Alright, Taggie?” The words are called from the entryway and her head shoots up because I know that voice… I’d know it anywhere.
“Rupert,” Taggie says, voice betraying her excitement. She clears her throat, which is somehow suddenly dry in his presence. “What are you doing here? Daddy’s out.”
“Just thought I’d pop in to see you.” HIs voice is like satin against her skin, soft and smooth and inviting. She wants to drown in the sound; let it pull her under until she can’t breathe without him. Then she blinks—realizes that’s not a very platonic thing to think about her father’s business partner. Tries instead to offer a small, polite smile and forgets the box she’s holding for a minute too long and why she should hide it from him of all people. He looks down and his eyes go playful. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” she insists, tucking the box behind her quickly, but it’s too late. He steps closer, effectively removing any space between them, and reaches around her. She’s so focused on the scent of him—aftershave, tobacco, and man— that she forgets to hold the box out of reach. He nicks it from her, pulling the necklace back into view. Taggie watches him assess it—the sparkle, the shine, the size. She feels… protective of it, somehow. Of the person who had sent it to her, even though she doesn’t have a face to go with it. Only a necklace and a moniker— yours.
In some ways, it’s true. The pieces of her admirer are hers, and the things she dreams of are theirs. Hands holding her, brushing her hair from her face, pressing kisses to her temple—things she knows she can’t have without a true name.
Still, she dreams.
“This doesn’t look like nothing to me, angel.” He takes the necklace from the box and loops it over his fingers. He holds it up, and stares at her with an arched brow. “This looks like a pretty pricey something.”
“Oh my God, don’t remind me,” Taggie groans. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to accept it.”
“Graciously, I’d assume,” Rupert deadpans. Then, when she gives him a sour look, he smiles cheekily at her. “What? It’s a gift. Say thank you and put it on.”
“I can’t say thank you. It’s—well, it’s, uh—”
“It’s—?” He interjects, spurring her along.
“It’s from an anonymous source.” She mumbles the words quietly, cheeks heating in a flush. She goes from pink to red at the absolutely devilish look on his face.
“Oh, like an admirer?”
“You’re awful, give it back.” Taggie reaches out and tries to snatch the necklace from him. He holds it up, up, up above her head and she glowers at him menacingly. “Rupert, so help me—”
“ What? I’m just saying—”
“You’re being cruel,” Taggie cuts him off sourly. He presses a hand to his heart and feigns shock.
“I’m merely pointing out that someone likes you. Quite a lot, clearly.”
She wants to melt through the floor; wants to hide from his gaze and the questions in his eyes. But more than that, she wants to hide from the joy on his face. Because if Rupert had a secret admirer, Taggie most definitely would not be overjoyed. It didn’t bode well for her schoolgirl crush that the object of her desires was so pleased to see someone else interested in her.
“Just give it here. Come on, give it!” She hops up—presses a hand against his shoulder and pushes off him, somehow still coming up short. Only when she lands they’re somehow face to face, so close she can feel his breaths fanning across her face. He looks startled for a moment, like he’s seeing her for the first time, but then his face is carefully neutral once more. She licks her lips nervously, watches him trace the motion with his eyes, and feels electricity zip up her spine. Tries to play it off like she isn’t affected by him when she adds, “I’m serious. It’s not funny that someone likes me for once.”
At this, he looks stricken.
“Tag, I didn’t—” He cuts off with a curse, running a hand through his hair. “I’m an ass. I would never laugh at anyone for liking you. I think it’s actually pretty impossible to not like you.”
She feels her lips part in surprise, but quickly scolds herself. He likes you but not like that. Feels foolish to even consider it for even a moment.
“Here,” he finally says after she’s spent too long looking at him slack-jawed. He gestures for her to turn around. “Let me put it on.”
She obeys; if only so she doesn’t have to look him in the eye anymore. She feels embarrassed and a bit raw, vulnerable at the way he looks at her. Like she’s something tender; an egg he’s cracked accidentally in his palms. She hates that look, too close to pity for comfort.
His fingers graze the back of her neck, grounding her in the moment—in the warmth of his hands and the slip of her hair off her shoulder as he moves it. She feels goosebumps rise at the sensation and her breath hitches. It’s too much, too intimate. This is how stupid girls get the wrong idea, and in this moment she feels an absolute fool.
“Hold still, just—” He cuts off as he brings the chain around her neck and it settles over her collarbones. His fingertips brush against her neck softly as he fiddles with the clasp, and then finally, “There. All done.”
He comes around to face her, his eyes gentle as he takes her in. Then, he looks down at the necklace, ruby gleaming in the light, and takes the gem in between his fingers. She looks up at him, eyes wide and searching. Waits for him to say something, to tell her that she’s not alone in feeling this—that the tension that burns through her blood sings through his too. Instead, he stares at the necklace for a long moment, then finally speaks in a hushed tone.
“Lady in red.”
It calls back to bubbles and red lights; to champagne and camels in the front yard. To a party she’d felt unwanted at until he took her in his arms. She opens her mouth to ask what he means— why he remembers too — when the front door opens and they jump apart guiltily.
“Oh, you’re here already,” Daddy says as he toes off his shoes and smiles at Rupert. “I wanted to talk to you about polo. Is there a way we could feature it with—”
The conversation turns to Venturer and their hands turn to cigarettes, which is Taggie’s cue to leave. She scurries out of the room quickly, but not before Rupert’s eyes snag on the necklace once more and makes her heart kick to life in her ribs.
She thinks about the ghost of his fingertips against her chest for hours, nearly burning dinner in her daze. It’s only when she settles in for bed that night, the chain still clasped around her neck, that she realizes she won’t take it off.
She wants to be his lady in red as long as she possibly can, even if it means pretending the necklace is from him.
V: THE LINGERIE
CHRISTMAS EVE
She has to be wrong—must be misreading something. She stares down at the note until her eyes burn and the words blur together. Until she’s positive she’s gotten it wrong.
But what are the odds…?
Slim. Admittedly it’s hard to imagine the coincidence. That a letter addressed to angel with lady in red in it would arrive at her door a day before Christmas. Doesn’t he remember? Those months and months ago when he’d held her necklace in his hand and said those words to her? The sign that he remembers too. Did he think she’d just forget?
She can’t be right. She can’t.
Because being right would mean that the red, lacy lingerie tucked in the tissue paper of the box in front of her was from him— Rupert. It would mean that he…
… Maybe loves her back. Maybe feels the same way for her that she feels for him.
Taggie stares down at the red lace. Stares and stares until she knows what she has to do.
She has to find out.
VI: THE SURPRISE
CHRISTMAS DAY
She wears the longest coat she has, both to fight the late December chill and in fear that she’ll encounter one of his staff again. But when she knocks at eight o’clock sharp, it’s Rupert who answers. He’s all comfort in joggers and a white tee, slightly tousled like he’d been asleep. She questions this idea—questions if she’s making the right choice and God what if I’m wrong? But the way his eyes light up as he sees her makes her steel her resolve.
She has to know. She has to.
“Taggie, what—” He cuts off as she unties the band around the waist of her coat, opening it to reveal the lingerie he’d bought her. He takes her in, red lace and rosy, flushed cheeks.
“I just thought I should repay you for all the gifts you’ve given me this year,” Taggie says, hoping he doesn’t notice the shake in her voice. She steps in, out of the cold and into the house and the space he occupies—looking up at him from under her lashes. “Since it is you.”
“I don’t know what you mean, angel,” Rupert says, his eyes down on the swells of her breasts, practically spilling out of the lace of the cups.
“I think—” She lets the coat fall to the floor—lets him see all of her. “You do.”
“Taggie, we can’t,” he starts, then curses when she places her hands on his chest. “I went too far. The gifts… I shouldn’t—”
“Why shouldn’t you?” She wants to know; needs to know if he regrets this, regrets her.
“Declan. The franchise, I–” His hands are on her hips now, a soft groan leaving him as they trail up and down her sides. “I shouldn’t have let myself give in to it.”
“Into what?”
“I shouldn’t have let myself pretend I could have you.” He looks desperate—like a man starved. Like he wants to devour her but is holding himself back.
She wants to see him break. Leans up until her mouth is centimeters— millimeters— from his.
“But what about me?” She breathes the words against his mouth and watches his jaw clench with restraint. “What about what I want?”
“Taggie—”
“Rupert,” she cuts him off. He curses under his breath, mouth grazing hers and sending a zip of awareness up her spine. His hands squeeze her sides, his grip tethering her to this moment—to the strength of his palms, the puffs of his breath, and the smell of his skin. She feels electric; she feels wanted—d esirable in a way she’s never felt before. Goes for broke and tells him, “Don’t you want me?”
“Fuck, Tag. More than you could ever know.” The words sound tortured, torn from him like teeth from the gum. He lets out a strangled sound as she runs her hands up his chest, fingers digging divots into her ribcage. “But your father—”
“-Isn’t here. It’s just you and me,” she finishes for him. Twines her arms around his neck and fists his hair between her fingers. Then, quieter; a beg, a whispered plea, “ Please?”
His mouth meets hers then, soft and searching. She gasps and his tongue slips into her mouth, his hands pressing her closer—so close she can feel the hard lines of him, his chest, his hips, the bulge of his cock. She feels small and soft in comparison; something for him to mold to the shape of him, to take and use.
“Fuck, you’re sweet.” He groans the words, but they sound like a prayer. Like a sinner begging for their god, he begs for more of her. “Can I taste more of you?”
She nods, letting him back her against the entryway wall. She thinks to ask him what he meant but he’s on his knees on the hardwood before she can blink, pulling her panties to the side and moaning— actually moaning— at the sight of her pussy.
“You’re so pretty, angel.” He swipes his fingers through her folds and finds her wet. “Is all this for me?”
Taggie presses her hand to her face, feeling flushed and shy as he studies her. His fingers trail over her clit, making her hips jerk forward, and he lets out a small, sinful chuckle.
“Don’t be shy now, darling. Where’s all that boldness from before?” He rubs his thumb against her clit and elicits a moan from her. “There she is… Let me hear you.”
“Rupert.” She lets her hands fall, bracing them against the wall behind her as she looks down at him. His eyes are heavy-lidded; his pupils blown wide as he stares up at her. Then he leans forward—eyes still on hers—and presses his mouth to her there. She lets out a sob at the sensation, her hips arching into his mouth as her head thumps against the wall behind her. “Oh God, Rupert.”
He licks at her folds and circles her clit, over and over until she feels insane—until she feels like a spring wound too tight. Her fingers grip at the strands of his hair, trying to ground herself as he works her cunt with his mouth. She’s incoherent above him, a string of yesyesyes and moremoremore leaving her lips like a jumbled mess. She needs to come—has never needed anything more in her entire life. The world narrows down to the feeling of his tongue against her clit and, finally, the two fingers he thrusts inside her cunt.
She comes with a cry, coil unraveling behind her navel in a rush. But he doesn’t relent; doesn’t ease up against her cunt until she goes slack against him, knees almost giving out. Only then does he rise and press his mouth against hers, the salty tang of herself on his tongue as he entwines it with hers. She moans softly into his mouth, and presses her hips into his, grinding against the hard ridge of his cock.
“Yeah?” He murmurs into her mouth, pulling back as he grinds his hips into hers—intent in every motion. “You want more, angel?”
“Yes, please,” she sighs, bones like jelly and limbs spun sugar soft in the wake of her orgasm. Lets him pick her up and carry her to his bedroom, setting her down on the softest sheets she’s ever felt.
“How do you want it?” He asks as he stares down at her, grabbing at the hem of his shirt and tugging it up over his head. She stares at the line of hair that trails down from his belly button—at the vee of his hips and the hard length of his cock as he pushes his pants down and steps out of them. “Hm? How do you want me, angel?”
“I want whatever will make you feel good.”
He’s on her then, hovering over her as he settles himself in between her thighs. He fits like a missing piece against her; makes her feel complete as he pulls the lingerie to the side and lines himself up with her entrance.
“ Everything about you makes me feel good.” He notches himself inside and they both hiss at the stretch. “You were made for me, Taggie. Designed with me in mind.”
He fucks her slowly—intentional in every motion. Designed for her to feel everything. Feeds her inch after inch until she’s a gasping, panting mess beneath him.
“Please, please,” she moans as she arches up against him, desperate for harder, deeper, faster.
“Yeah? You need some more?” He asks, his voice like gravel—hard and rough. She nods, quick and jerky; too focused on the feeling of his thumb finding her clit and circling it. His hips pick up speed, finallyfinally giving her what she needs. “Don’t worry, Angel. Daddy’s going to take care of you.”
She lets out a breathless sound, her eyes going wide as she looks up at him. She opens her mouth—to tell him he shouldn’t call himself that— but he circles her clit again and she lets out a moan.
“Ohh, Daddy. Please.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” He fucks her earnestly now, the sounds of her cunt nearly lewd in the quiet of the room around them. “My good girl. Daddy’s good little girl.”
She whimpers; wants to tell him she doesn’t. That she isn’t the kind of girl who fucks men who call her little girl. But the answering wetness he calls from her body says otherwise, so she gives in—lets herself have the things she’s only fantasized about in the darkness of her room. Gives in to the feel of him inside her and the filthy words he murmurs above her as he drives them both towards release.
Gonna fuck you full of me, angel…
… Give you everything…
… Feel like heaven around me….
When she comes, it’s with a cry of DaddyDaddyDaddy— bearing down on his cock until he follows her over the edge, spilling himself inside her. He gasps out praises of good girl and perfect above her until they both go limp against one another, spent and tired.
It’s only later, when he finally pulls out of her and she settles into his side, that she realizes—
“I’m never going to get enough of this.”
He presses a kiss into the top of her head, his heart loud and even beneath her ear.
“Good, because I have more gifts in mind for you,” Rupert answers. Taggie tips her head up to look at him with a small, satisfied grin.
“Yeah?” She asks. “Like what?”
“Absolutely,” he answers with a cheeky grin and a sinful gleam in his eyes. “Well now that I know this is what I get for buying you lingerie, expect at least a hundred more pairs. Then of course, there’s all the major holidays, the just because gifts, the days where you fuck me so good you earn a present. Honestly the list goes on and on.”
She thinks she could get used to this.