Scarlett's POV
I grab the lamp from my nightstand and swing it toward the sound of breathing.
"WHO'S THERE?" My voice cracks, and I hate how scared I sound.
The breathing stops.
My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears. I back toward the door, lamp raised like a weapon. My phone is still in my other hand, Julian's text glowing in the darkness.
Then the lights flicker back on.
I spin around, ready to fight, ready to scream, ready to—
There's nobody here.
I check the bathroom. Empty. The closet. Empty. Under the bed. Nothing.
I'm alone.
But I heard someone breathing. I know I did.
Unless... unless I'm losing my mind. After everything that's happened, maybe my brain is finally breaking down. Great. Now I can add "going crazy" to my list of problems.
I lock the door, check it twice, then push my kitchen table against it for good measure. My hands won't stop shaking.
The text from Julian is still on my screen. I stare at it, my stomach churning.
Maybe it was just the wind. Old buildings make weird noises, right? And that security photo from the news could've been anyone. I'm just paranoid because I've had the worst six months of my life.
I need to calm down.
I need to think.
I need—
My phone rings, and I actually scream.
It's Zara. Thank God.
"Hey girl, just checking on you," she says, her voice warm and familiar. "You sounded weird when we talked earlier."
I almost cry just hearing her voice. Zara's been my best friend since college. She's the only person who didn't abandon me after the wedding disaster. While everyone else picked sides or just disappeared, Zara showed up at my apartment with wine and Chinese food and let me cry for three days straight.
"I'm fine," I lie, my voice shaky.
"Liar. What's wrong?"
I want to tell her everything. About the eviction notice. About getting fired. About Julian and the serial killer and the breathing in my apartment. But the words stick in my throat.
"Scarlett Hayes, I know when you're lying to me. Talk."
"I got evicted," I finally say. "I have three days to get out."
Zara swears loudly. "That's it. I'm lending you money. Don't even argue."
"No." The word comes out sharper than I mean it to. "Zara, you've already helped me so much. I can't keep taking from you."
"You're not taking. I'm giving. There's a difference."
"I said no." I squeeze my eyes shut. "I need to do this myself. I need to prove I'm not a complete failure."
Zara sighs. "You're not a failure. Your family failed you. That jerk Marcus failed you. Your boss failed you. But you? You're surviving. That's not failing, Scarlett. That's fighting."
Her words make my throat tight. "I don't feel like I'm fighting. I feel like I'm drowning."
"Then let me throw you a rope."
"I can't." Pride is a stupid thing, but it's all I have left. "I'll figure something out. I always do."
We talk for a few more minutes. She tells me about her cases—Zara's a defense lawyer, and she's good at it. She's offered to help me sue my old boss, but I can't afford a legal battle. We both know it.
After we hang up, the apartment feels too quiet again.
I try to distract myself by looking for jobs on my laptop. But every application I fill out asks for references. And everyone who could give me a reference either hates me or thinks I'm a thief.
An hour passes. Then two. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since breakfast. I check my fridge: one egg, half a carton of milk, and a packet of ramen noodles.
Ramen it is. Again.
While the water boils, I turn on the TV for background noise. Anything to stop thinking about breathing sounds and serial killers and texts from handsome strangers.
But the universe clearly hates me, because the news is on.
"Breaking news in the Courtship Killer case," the reporter says, and my hand freezes on the stove.
A woman's photo fills the screen. Emily Santos, 24. Dark hair. Green eyes. Pretty smile.
She looks so much like me it's creepy.
"Emily Santos was found dead in her apartment three weeks ago," the reporter continues. "Police say she had been dating someone new, a man she met at a bookstore. Witnesses describe him as charming and well-dressed. Emily told friends she thought he might be 'the one.'"
My stomach turns.
"The Courtship Killer earned his nickname because he courts his victims before killing them. He makes them trust him. Makes them fall in love. And then..."
The screen shows crime scene tape and flashing police lights.
"If you match the victim profile—young women with dark hair and green eyes—police urge you to be extra cautious about who you date. Don't meet strangers alone. Trust your instincts."
I pour my ramen with shaking hands.
Four women. Four dead women who look like me.
And I have a date tomorrow with a man I barely know.
I should cancel. Obviously, I should cancel.
But a small voice in my head whispers: What if he's not dangerous? What if he's just a nice guy who happens to like you? Are you really going to let paranoia ruin your one chance at something good?
I eat my ramen without tasting it.
Maybe I'm being ridiculous. Julian seemed normal. Sweet, even. He complimented my taste in art books. He smiled at me like I mattered. After six months of feeling invisible, that meant something.
I'm probably just being paranoid because my life is falling apart and my brain is looking for patterns that aren't there.
Right?
I finish eating and crawl into bed, exhausted. Tomorrow I'll figure everything out. Tomorrow I'll find a job, a new apartment, and maybe even enjoy a nice date with a nice man who is definitely not a serial killer.
As I'm drifting off, my phone buzzes one last time.
Another text. Unknown number.
My heart starts racing before I even read it.
"Sweet dreams, Scarlett. I'll be thinking of you. By the way... you look beautiful in that blue tank top you're wearing."
I freeze.
Blue tank top.
I look down at myself. I'm wearing a blue tank top.
The text isn't from Julian. It's from someone else.
Someone who can see me right now.
I jump out of bed and run to my window. The curtain is open. I yank it closed, my hands trembling so badly I can barely grip the fabric.
My apartment is on the fourth floor. Nobody should be able to see inside unless...
Unless they're in the building across the street.
I peek through a tiny gap in the curtain. The building opposite mine has dozens of windows. Any one of them could be hiding someone with binoculars. Watching. Waiting.
My phone buzzes again.
"Don't close the curtains. I want to see you."
I drop the phone like it burned me.
This can't be happening. This can't be real.
I grab my phone with shaking hands and dial 911.
But before I can hit call, another text comes through.
This one includes a photo.
It's me. Standing in my apartment. Taken from across the street.
Taken tonight.
And at the bottom of the photo, there's a message that makes my blood run cold:
"I'm closer than you think. Check your front door."
I can't breathe.
Can't move.
Can't think.
The table I pushed against my door earlier... I can see it from here. It looks normal. Untouched.
But something is different.
Something is wrong.
There's an envelope on the floor. A white envelope that definitely wasn't there before.
Someone slid it under my door while I was eating ramen.
While I was ten feet away.
And I didn't hear a thing.
With trembling legs, I walk toward the door. Every instinct screams at me to run, to call the police, to do anything except move closer.
But I have to know.
I pick up the envelope. My name is written on it in elegant handwriting.
Inside is a single card.
"See you tomorrow night, Scarlett. Wear something pretty. Our first date is going to be unforgettable. —Your Secret Admirer"
But there's something else in the envelope.
Something that makes me drop everything and back away until I hit the wall.
It's a photo of me from six months ago.
Wearing my wedding dress.
Standing at the altar.
Someone was at my wedding.
Someone has been watching me for six months.
And tomorrow night, I'm supposed to meet them for a date.