"Don't lie to me." Her grip on my hand tightens. "I've known you for eight years, Eve. I can see it on your face. You're curious about this psycho."
"He's not—" I stop myself. What was I about to say? That he's not a psycho? Based on what evidence? "I don't know what he is."
"He's dangerous." Lucy's voice breaks. "Eve, please. This isn't romantic. This isn't some mystery to solve. Someone is stalking you. Violating your privacy. Playing mind games. This is serious."
She's right. I know she's right. These aren't acts of romance. They're acts of control. Violation.
But they're also... something else. Something I can't quite name.
Someone sees me. Really sees me. Knows about Rilke and the parts of myself I've buried so deep I thought no one could find them.
When was the last time anyone saw past Eve Sinclair, the designer? Past the professional smile and the careful walls? When did anyone last see just... me?
The thought is seductive and terrifying in equal measure.
"Eve." Lucy grips my hand so hard it hurts. "Promise me you'll go to the police tomorrow. Please. I'm begging you."
I look at the black rose, at its preserved petals, at the care someone took to make sure it stayed perfect.
"Okay," I hear myself say.
But even as the word leaves my lips, I know I'm lying.
Because a part of me—a part I'm terrified to acknowledge—wants to know what he'll do next.
Lucy pulls me into a hug, and I let her hold me while guilt and fear and that dark curiosity war inside my chest.
"I can't lose you," she whispers. "You're all I have."
"You won't lose me," I promise, even though I'm not sure it's a promise I can keep.
Because something is happening to me. Something is shifting. And I don't know if I'm strong enough to stop it.
Or if I even want to.
Chapter 4 - Nathan
The dream always starts the same way.
I'm seven years old, cowering in the corner of our kitchen while my father's rage fills the room like poison gas. The bottle in his hand is half-empty—or half-full, depending on how optimistic you're feeling about our chances of survival tonight.
"You worthless piece of shit," he slurs, and I can smell the whiskey on his breath from across the room. "Can't even take out the fucking trash without screwing it up."
I did take out the trash. I know I did. But pointing that out will only make it worse.
My mother stands at the sink, her back to us, washing dishes that are already clean. She's learned the same lesson I have—invisibility is survival. If she doesn't see it, she doesn't have to stop it. If she doesn't stop it, his fists won't turn on her.
The bottle smashes against the wall beside my head, and I flinch. Glass rains down, cutting my cheek, but I don't make a sound. Making a sound is a weakness, and weakness invites more violence.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" His hand is in my hair now, yanking my head up. His eyes are bloodshot, empty of anything resembling love or humanity. "You're just like your worthless mother. Pathetic. Weak."
I want to fight back. Want to scream. Want to run.
But I'm seven, and he's everything, and there's nowhere to go.
The dream shifts. Now I'm seventeen, standing over Alex's broken body in the wreckage of his father's car. Bloodeverywhere. Glass everywhere. And Alex's eyes, open and empty, staring at nothing.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, but he can't hear me. He's already gone.
