Scarlett's POV
The eviction notice is soaking through in my hands, the red letters bleeding like a wound across the paper. FINAL NOTICE. VACATE IN 72 HOURS.
I stand outside my apartment building in Queens, rain hammering down so hard it feels like the sky is punishing me personally. My clothes are drenched. My hair sticks to my face. And I'm holding the last piece of proof that my life has officially fallen apart.
"Move it, lady!" A guy with an umbrella shoves past me. I stumble, nearly dropping the notice into a puddle. Nobody stops. Nobody cares. That's New York for you—a city full of people, and I've never felt more alone.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don't even want to look. It's probably another bill collector. Or my mom calling to remind me what a disappointment I am. Or maybe it's my ex-fiancé Marcus, texting from my sister's phone just to twist the knife a little deeper.
I should go inside. Get out of the rain. But honestly? I'm so tired I could just stand here and let the storm wash me away.
How did I get here?
Six months ago, I was getting married. I had a fiancé who said he loved me. A family who pretended they cared. A decent job in PR that paid the bills. I wasn't rich or famous, but I was happy. I thought I was building something real.
Then everything exploded in the worst possible way.
My wedding day. That's when it started. I can still see myself standing at the altar in that stupid white dress I'd saved for months to buy. The church was packed. Everyone was watching. And I was smiling like an idiot, waiting for Marcus to walk down the aisle.
But Marcus never came.
Instead, my little sister Vivienne appeared at the church doors. She was crying—those pretty, delicate tears she's so good at. The kind that make everyone want to protect her.
"I'm so sorry," she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "But I can't let this wedding happen. Marcus and I... we're in love."
The church went dead silent.
I remember thinking it was a joke. Some weird prank. But then Marcus walked in behind her, looking guilty but determined. He wouldn't even meet my eyes.
"Scarlett, I'm sorry," he said. "But Vivienne and I... it just happened. I can't marry you when I'm in love with her."
My mother—my own mother—stood up from the front pew. I thought she was going to defend me. Tell them both to get out. Instead, she looked at me with this cold, disappointed expression.
"Scarlett, you must have driven him away," she said. "What did you do to make him choose your sister?"
That's when I knew. My own family was going to side with them.
I didn't cry at the altar. I didn't scream or throw things. I just stood there in my wedding dress, in front of two hundred people, while my life crumbled. Then I turned and walked out of that church with my head up.
I cried later. Alone. Like I'm crying now in this stupid rain.
After the wedding disaster, things got worse. My boss at the PR firm found out about the scandal—small world, he knew my mom—and suddenly I was a "distraction" at work. When money went missing from a client account, he blamed me. Said I was unstable after the breakup. I got fired and blacklisted before I could even defend myself.
My parents cut me off completely. Said I was an embarrassment to the family. All my inheritance? They gave it to Vivienne as a wedding gift when she married Marcus two months later. Two months! They didn't even wait.
So here I am. Twenty-eight years old. No job. No family. No money. And in seventy-two hours, no home.
I finally force myself to walk inside the building. The stairs creak under my feet. My apartment is on the fourth floor, and the elevator's been broken for three weeks. By the time I reach my door, I'm exhausted.
I unlock it and step into the tiny studio that's been my prison for the last six months. It's barely big enough for a bed and a kitchen table. The paint is peeling. The radiator makes weird noises. But it's mine. Or it was.
My phone buzzes again. I pull it out, ready to ignore another bill collector.
But it's not a bill collector.
It's a news alert.
BREAKING: Fourth Woman Found Dead in Manhattan Serial Killer Case
My breath catches. I click on the article with shaking fingers.
Police have discovered the body of Jessica Chen, 27, in her Manhattan apartment. She is the fourth victim in what authorities are calling the "Courtship Killer" case. All victims were young women with dark hair and green eyes who were dating someone new before their deaths. The killer wines and dines his victims, making them fall in love before brutally murdering them.
I stare at the victim's photo. Dark hair. Green eyes. She looks like she could be my sister.
She looks like me.
A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with my wet clothes. I scroll through the article, reading about the other victims. All of them looked similar. All of them met their killer through what seemed like chance—a coffee shop, a bookstore, a random encounter on the street.
The article warns women who match the description to be careful. To report any suspicious behavior.
I'm about to close the app when I see something that makes my heart stop.
At the bottom of the article, there's a grainy security photo from near one of the crime scenes. It shows a man's silhouette walking away. The image is blurry, but something about it seems familiar.
I zoom in, squinting at the screen.
That jacket. I know that jacket.
My mind races. No. It can't be. I'm being paranoid. Lots of men wear jackets like that.
But my hands are shaking so badly I almost drop the phone.
Because three days ago, I met someone. A man at the coffee shop where I work—well, worked until I got fired this morning. He was handsome, charming, and he seemed really interested in me. For the first time in months, someone made me feel special.
We talked for almost an hour. He said his name was Julian. He asked me out.
I said yes.
Our date is tomorrow night.
I look back at the security photo, at that familiar jacket, and my stomach twists with fear.
What if I just said yes to a serial killer?
My phone buzzes one more time. I nearly scream.
It's a text from an unknown number.
"Hi Scarlett. Still excited for our date tomorrow? I can't wait to see you again. —Julian"
The lights in my apartment flicker once.
Then they go out completely.
I'm standing in the dark, alone, with a text from a man who might be a murderer glowing on my phone screen.
And somewhere in the shadows of my tiny apartment, I hear something that makes my blood freeze.
The sound of someone breathing.
I'm not alone.