Scarlett's POV
I didn't sleep.
How could I? Someone has been watching me for six months. Someone was at my wedding. Someone slid an envelope under my door last night while I was eating ramen ten feet away.
At 3 AM, I called the police. They came, took my statement, looked at the texts and the photo. The officer—a tired-looking woman named Rodriguez—told me to change my locks and be careful. That was it. No protection. No investigation. Just "be careful."
"We'll keep the texts on file," she said. "But without a direct threat or clear identity, there's not much we can do."
So I'm on my own. Again.
Now it's 8 AM, and I'm standing outside The Grind, an upscale coffee shop in Manhattan. I have a job interview in five minutes, and I look like I haven't slept in a week. Because I haven't.
My hands shake as I push open the door. The place smells like expensive coffee and fresh pastries. Everything is clean and bright, the complete opposite of my life.
I can't afford to mess this up. This job is my only chance at making rent somewhere new. My only chance at survival.
"You're early. Good sign."
I jump at the voice. A woman in her forties appears, holding a tablet. She must be the manager.
"Scarlett Hayes?" she asks.
"Yes. Thank you for meeting with me."
"Have a seat. I'll be with you in ten minutes. Want a coffee while you wait?"
"Yes, please. Black is fine."
She nods and disappears behind the counter. I sit at a small table by the window, trying to calm my racing heart. I rehearse answers in my head. Why do you want this job? Because I'm about to be homeless. What's your biggest weakness? Apparently, I attract stalkers and serial killers.
I'm so lost in my anxious thoughts that I don't notice the man walking past my table until I accidentally elbow his arm.
Hot coffee splashes everywhere.
All over his suit. His very expensive-looking suit.
"Oh my God!" I jump up, grabbing napkins. "I'm so sorry! I didn't see you, I wasn't looking, I'm such a disaster—"
"Hey, it's okay." His voice is calm, almost amused. "Breathe."
I finally look up at him, and my breath catches for a completely different reason.
He's gorgeous. Tall, maybe six feet, with dark hair and warm brown eyes. He's dressed like he just stepped out of a magazine—suit, expensive watch, the kind of confident posture that says he belongs in places like this.
And I just dumped coffee all over him.
"I'm so sorry," I repeat, frantically dabbing at his jacket with napkins. "I'll pay for the cleaning. Or a new suit. I don't have money right now, but I can make payments—"
He catches my hand gently. "Really, it's fine. Accidents happen."
"But your suit—"
"Has survived worse." He smiles, and it transforms his whole face. "I'm more worried about you. You look like you're about to pass out."
"I have a job interview," I blurt out. "In five minutes. And I just assaulted a customer with coffee. They're probably not going to hire me now."
He laughs—a real, genuine laugh. "I won't tell if you won't."
Something about his laugh makes me relax slightly. "Deal."
He extends his hand. "Julian Cross."
"Scarlett Hayes." I shake his hand, and his grip is warm and steady.
"Scarlett," he repeats, like he's testing how it sounds. "Pretty name."
I feel my cheeks heat up. Nobody's complimented me in months. "Thanks. Again, I'm really sorry about your suit."
"Stop apologizing." He slides into the chair across from me without asking. "You're making me feel like a villain."
"You're being way too nice about this."
"Maybe I'm just in a good mood." His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. "Or maybe I think beautiful women should spill coffee on me more often."
Now my face is definitely red. "Are you flirting with me after I attacked you with hot beverages?"
"Is it working?"
I laugh despite everything—the stalker, the eviction, the terror from last night. For just a second, I feel normal.
Julian notices the art book peeking out of my bag. "You into art?"
"Kind of. I studied it in college before I switched to PR." I pull out the book—a collection of modern impressionist paintings. "This is my favorite style. The way they capture emotion with color instead of perfect details... I don't know. It speaks to me."
His expression shifts, becoming more focused. "Most people prefer realism. They want everything neat and clear."
"Life isn't neat and clear," I say. "Why should art be?"
"Exactly." He leans forward, genuinely interested. "You know, impressionism was considered rebellious when it started. People hated it. Said it wasn't real art."
"But now it's in every museum," I finish. "Sometimes the things people reject become the most valuable."
Something passes between us—a connection, an understanding. For twenty minutes, we talk about art, about favorite painters, about the difference between seeing and feeling. He's easy to talk to, intelligent without being pretentious. He actually listens when I speak, like my opinions matter.
I almost forget about my interview until I see the manager watching us from behind the counter.
"I should go," I say reluctantly.
"Good luck." Julian stands when I do, old-fashioned and polite. "I hope you get the job."
"Thanks. And sorry again about the suit."
"Best coffee stain I've ever had." He winks.
The interview is a blur. I must say the right things because twenty minutes later, the manager—her name is Paula—offers me the job. Starting tomorrow. Minimum wage plus tips, but it's something. It's survival.
When I walk back into the main area, Julian is still there, reading a newspaper.
He looks up and smiles. "Did you get it?"
"I did."
"Congratulations." He stands, pulling out his phone. "This might be forward, but can I have your number? I'd like to take you to dinner sometime. Make up for the coffee incident."
My heart does a weird flip. A gorgeous, charming man wants my number. Wants to take me to dinner. After everything that's happened, someone actually wants to spend time with me.
But then I remember last night. The texts. The photo. The stalker.
Julian notices my hesitation. "Too forward? I can back off—"
"No," I say quickly. Maybe too quickly. "I'd like that."
I give him my number. He texts me immediately so I have his.
"I'll message you," he promises. "Soon."
As I leave the coffee shop, I feel lighter than I have in months. Maybe my luck is finally changing. Maybe—
My phone buzzes.
A text from Julian already: Great meeting you, Scarlett. Can't wait for our date.
I smile and start to reply. But then another text comes through.
From the unknown number. The stalker.
"I saw you with him. I saw you smiling. I saw you give him your number."
My blood runs cold.
Another text: "Did you think I wouldn't be watching? Did you think you could replace me?"
I spin around, scanning the street. People everywhere. Any one of them could be watching.
My phone buzzes again.
"He can't protect you, Scarlett. Nobody can. You belong to me."
Another buzz.
"Check your bag."
With shaking hands, I open my bag. Right on top of my art book—the one I was just showing Julian—there's something that wasn't there before.
A small jewelry box.
I didn't put it there. Which means someone got close enough to slip it into my bag without me noticing. Recently. Maybe while I was interviewing. Maybe while I was talking to Julian.
I open the box.
Inside is a silver bracelet. Delicate, beautiful, expensive-looking.
And engraved on the inside: Until death do us part.
The words from my wedding vows.
My phone buzzes one more time.
"He's in danger now, Scarlett. Everyone you talk to. Everyone you smile at. Everyone you let close. I'll make them all pay. Starting with Julian Cross. You have 24 hours to cancel your date with him. If you don't... well, you've seen what I do to people who get in my way. The news calls me the Courtship Killer. Want to know why? Because I kill anyone who tries to court what's MINE."
The phone slips from my fingers and clatters on the sidewalk.
The stalker isn't just watching me.
The stalker IS the serial killer.
And I just gave him Julian's name.