"Hello?" I call out, my voice thin and wavering.
Silence answers me.
Every survival instinct I have screams at me to run. To turn around, run down the stairs, and call 911. That’s what a smart girl would do. That’s what a sane girl would do.
But I don’t move. I stand there, staring at the slice of darkness beyond the door, paralyzed by a terrifying curiosity.
Is it him?
The thought isn't a fear response. It’s a hope. And that scares me more than any intruder could.
I push the door open with my fingertips. It swings inward silently.
"Is anyone there?" I whisper, stepping across the threshold.
The apartment is empty. It’s a studio, barely big enough for a bed and a kitchenette, so there are very few places to hide. The closet door is closed. The bathroom door is open.
But the air... the air is different.
Usually, my apartment smells like vanilla candles and turpentine. Today, that scent is buried under something heavier. Darker.
Masculine.
It’s subtle—rich sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and the crisp, metallic tang of winter air clinging to a wool coat. It smells like money. It smells like danger. It smells like the man I’ve been dreaming about.
I drop my bag on the floor, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I move slowly through the small space, my eyes scanning every inch.
Nothing seems out of place at first. My unmade bed is still a mess of pillows. My easel is still set up by the window, covered in a half-finished charcoal sketch. The stack of dirty dishes is still in the sink (God, I’m embarrassed he saw that).
I walk to the window. The fire escape outside is empty, the metal rusted and covered in snow. I check the lock on the window.
It’s brand new.
I gasp, my fingers tracing the shiny, heavy-duty steel latch. This wasn't here this morning. My old lock was a flimsy piece of brass that barely held together. This is industrial-grade. Impenetrable.
He was here. He fixed my window.
My legs feel weak. I sink down onto the edge of my bed, my mind reeling. Why? Why would a stalker reinforce my security? Unless... unless he wants to keep me in. Or keep everyone else out.
I run my hand across my duvet, and my fingers brush against something cold.
I look down.
Resting in the center of my pillow, stark against the white cotton case, is a box.
It’s black velvet, small and square. No card. No note. Just the box, sitting there like a dark promise.
My breath hitches. I shouldn't touch it. I should call the police immediately. This is evidence. This is escalation.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely lift it. The velvet is soft under my fingertips. I open the lid.
The breath leaves my lungs in a sharp woosh.
Nestled in the black satin is a necklace. But not just any necklace. It’s a choker made of black diamonds, set in white gold. In the center hangs a small, intricate pendant: a silver birdcage. Inside the cage, a tiny, ruby heart swings freely.
It’s exquisite. It’s terrifying. It’s worth more than my tuition, my rent, and my life combined.
I stare at it, mesmerized. The diamonds catch the dim light from the streetlamp outside, glittering like malicious little stars.
