Well, maybe a little more than tidy. But who doesn't appreciate coming home to order after a chaotic day?
The drive home is peaceful. I keep the radio on low, some jazz station that doesn't require thought. The city blurs past my windows, all glass and steel and the golden hour light that makes everything look like a dream. I let myself breathe, really breathe, for the first time all day.
I'm already thinking about my evening. A cup of tea. That salmon I prepped this morning. A bath if I'm not too tired. Some sketching before bed. Simple pleasures that help me unwind. Maybe I'll call Lucy later, just to chat. She's been worried about me lately, keeps saying I work too much.
She's probably right.
When I push open my apartment door, the familiar scent of my home wraps around me—lavender from the diffuser, and something that's just... mine. I slip off my heels with a grateful sigh. God, that feels good. I love beautiful shoes, but they're murder on my feet after a long day, especially carrying the extra weight I do.
The apartment looks exactly as I left it this morning. Of course it does—I live alone, and I kind of love it that way. No one to leave dishes in the sink or move my things. Just me and my space and my carefully curated peace.
Though sometimes, late at night, the silence gets a little too loud. A little too empty.
I push the thought away. I'm fine. I chose this life.
I hang my coat on the hook by the door, set my bag on the entry table, and head toward the kitchen. But something makes me pause in the living room.
My favorite art book—a beautiful collection of Modigliani's portraits—sits on the coffee table. But something's off. The corner isn't quite aligned with the edge of the table. It's shifted maybe an inch to the left.
I stop, frowning. That's... odd. I always leave it flush with the corner. It's just a habit, the way I arrange things. But maybe I was distracted this morning? Maybe I grabbed it last night and didn't put it back quite right?
A flutter of unease moves through my stomach. I approach the table and adjust the book, lining it up properly. There. Better.
But the wrongness lingers. I'm not obsessive about these things—not really—but I do notice when something's off. And this is definitely off.
I shake my head and move toward the kitchen, trying to laugh at myself. I'm probably just tired. The fashion show is coming up, and I've been working long hours. Stress makes people see things that aren't there.
Right?
I fill the kettle and set it to boil, going through the familiar ritual of making tea. Earl Grey, steeped for four minutes. It's soothing, this routine. Comforting. A small piece of control in a world that often feels chaotic.
But as I wait for the water, I find myself glancing back at the coffee table. The book is perfect now, exactly where it should be. But I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.
Stop it, Eve. You're being paranoid. That's all. Just paranoid.
The kettle whistles, and I pour my tea, trying to let the anxiety go. Trying to breathe through it as my therapist taught me.
***
I stand in my walk-in closet, changing out of my work clothes. The closet is organized by color and season—not because I'm a control freak, but because it's easier to find things that way. Practical. Plus, it calms me. There's something soothing about order, about knowing where everything belongs.
I slip out of my work dress—one of my own designs from last season. Structured black silk that drapes rather than clings. I designed it for women like me, women who understand that power comes not from showing everything but from suggesting it.
I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror and pause. Some days I see the woman I've become—strong, successful, confident. Other days, I see the insecure fifteen-year-old who lost her brother and never quite figured out how to fill the space he left behind.
Today, I'm somewhere in between.
I reach for my signature perfume—the bottle I've used for three years. It's become such a part of my routine that I don't even think about it anymore. Jasmine and amber with a hint of citrus. Elegant. Understated.
I spray it on my wrist and bring it to my nose.
And freeze.
The scent is wrong.
It's still jasmine and amber, still recognizably my perfume. But underneath, there's something else. Something that wasn't there before. A note of sandalwood—warm, masculine, completely foreign.
My heart begins to pound, hard and fast, the way it did when I got the call about Alex. That same primal fear.
