L. Marie Adeline- S.E.C.R.E.T

wanted. I ticked the box.
I want to be with someone famous. What? How could they pull that o? This seemed
impossible, interesting. Tick.
I want to be rescued. Rescued from what? I put a checkmark in the box.
I want to be picked to be the princess. Oh God, what woman didn’t want that? I was
always considered the nice one, the smart one, maybe even the funny one. But I had
never been the pretty one, the princess, never in my whole life. So yes to this. Sure.
Even though it sounded childish. I wanted to feel that. Just once.
I want to be blindfolded. I imagined being in the dark might be liberating, so I checked
the box.
I want to have sex in an exotic place with an exotic stranger. Technically weren’t they all
strangers, these men I’d be with, who I’d never see again? With no talking, no speaking,
just bodies brushing past each other, and then … maybe he’d grasp my wrist … Keep
writing.
I want to role-play. Could I do that? Be someone else, not me? Would I have the guts? I
could always back out if I had to.
So this became my list: nine fantasies that would be followed by a nal decision. And,
as instructed, I wrote them in the order in which I thought I could handle them.
I looked at them one last time. My head lled with all the wonder and worry and joy
and fear that these fantasies would release. Imagine getting everything you ever wanted
and more. Imagine being what other people want and desire—every inch of you—
exactly as you are. This was happening. This was happening to me. I had thought my
life was winding down, but it was about to change forever.
When I was done, I called Danica.
“Hello, Cassie,” she said.
“How did you know it was me?” I asked, glancing uneasily out my front window.
“Er, call display?”
“Right. So I know it’s late, but Matilda told me to call as soon as I was done. So I’m
done—I have them … selected.”
“What?”
“You know … the list.”
There was silence.
“List?” she prodded.
“My … fantasies,” I whispered.
“Oh, Cassie. We denitely found the right candidate in you. You can’t even say the
word!” She giggled. “I’ll send someone right over, sweetie. And hold tight. Things are
about to get very interesting.”
Fifteen minutes later, my front doorbell rang. I whipped it open expecting to see a
scraggly teenage courier, but a lanky, good-looking man leaned against the doorjamb.
He had puppy-dog brown eyes, and wore a hoodie, white T-shirt and jeans. He looked
about thirty years old.
He smiled. “I’m here to fetch your folder. And I’m also instructed to give you this. You
must open it now.”