LIV My boyfriend, Ben, is going to propose to me any day now. We’ve been together for two years. Before him, my dating history was a blank page, no flings, no messy exes, nothing. He’s my first real boyfriend, my safe harbor, and the man I’m supposed to marry. Lately, he’s been dropping not-so-subtle hints about our future, acting secretive with his phone, and whispering behind my back with my best friend, Gia, whenever I leave the room. So, I’m waiting. Every time he suggests dinner or texts me out of the blue, my heart does a little flip, wondering if tonight is the night he drops to one knee. Honestly, that is the only reason I’m in a good enough mood to cover my sister’s coffee shop by myself today after her lead barista caught the flu.  I do not do customer service, and I definitely do not do people before noon. Which is why I’m seconds away from kicking Gia out of the shop after she showed up an hour ago strictly to eat free pastries and judge my life choices. "I’m just saying," Gia says around a mouthful of a blueberry scone, "two years is a long time to wait for a piece of jewelry, Liv." My best friend sits on the opposite side of the counter in a leather miniskirt and a black mesh top. Her ink-black hair, cut with icy-silver streaks, is clipped back in a messy claw clip, and her winged eyeliner is sharp enough to actually draw blood. Her cleavage is on full, unapologetic display. She kicks her heel against the metal stool, ignoring the older couple glaring at her from the corner table. They’ve been nursing the same black teas for an hour just to judge the room. Let them stare. "Ben isn't making me wait," I say, wiping down the espresso machine and tossing the damp rag into the sink. "We’ve been together two years, Gia, not two decades. Besides, I know for a fact the proposal is coming. I caught browser tabs for engagement rings open on his laptop last week. He’s just waiting for the right moment to ask." Gia raises an eyebrow, tapping a black-painted fingernail against her iced coffee. "Right. Because buying a diamond takes months of top-secret planning." "He likes to be thorough." "He’s too good to be true, is what he is." She leans over the counter. "Look, I’m just going to say it. You’re twenty-nine and still a virgin, Liv. Let's be real, if a guy dated me for two years without trying to get me into bed, I’d assume he was fucking someone else." "Gia!" I hiss, my cheeks heating up. I love her to death, but the woman does not possess a public filter. Or a private one. At the corner table, the older woman snaps her head toward us, her lips pursed in horror. I offer an apologetic grimace and mouth the word, Sorry. Gia flashes her a sickeningly sweet, fake smile. It drops the exact second the woman looks away. "I mean, don't get me wrong," Gia continues, lowering her voice by approximately half a decibel. "I think Ben is a good guy. I'm just genuinely surprised he's actually okay with being your first boyfriend and keeping your virginity intact until the wedding night." "He respects my choices. It's called having boundaries, Gia. You should Google the concept sometime." She smirks. "It’s just ironic. You’re practically a nun in real life, but somehow you write the most unhinged, erotic horror books I've ever read." I roll my eyes, tossing a sugar packet at her head. She catches it without flinching. "It's called fiction," I say. "Spare me your horniness and go to a club. Get laid. Bother someone else." "I would love to get laid," Gia sighs, dramatically draping herself over the counter. She tilts her head, looking past my shoulder toward the back corner of the shop. "In fact, I would happily let the guy in the corner booth ruin my life." I grab a clean towel and turn around, pretending to check the pastry display so I can follow her line of sight. My eyes land on the corner booth and my stomach immediately drops. There is a man sitting alone at the two-top near the window. He doesn't belong in a pastel-painted coffee shop. Honestly, he doesn't look like he belongs anywhere with daylight. He looks like a guy who burns things for a living. He is dressed in a dark leather jacket over a black shirt, his long legs stretched out under the small table. Most people fidget when they sit alone. They scroll on their phones or tap their feet. He is doing none of that. He sits completely still, hands resting on the tabletop. I blink. His knuckles are bruised, the skin lightly scarred. Has he been in a fight, or does he just punch walls for fun? His coffee cup sits untouched. And he is staring directly at our section of the counter. I roll my eyes internally and turn back to the register. With Gia basically spilling out of her top, I’m not surprised. Just come over and ask for her number already so we can move on. "Tell me you don't feel that," Gia whispers, leaning closer to me. "The man is undressing you with his retinas." "Undressing me? Please. He's staring at your mesh top, Gia," I say dryly, organizing a stack of napkins. "Which is exactly what you wanted when you put it on." "Wanna bet?" Gia smirks, sliding off her stool. She takes three dramatic steps to the right, leaning against the pastry case. "Check again." I frown, grabbing the espresso tamper and stepping down the counter to restock the lids. I tell myself I'm not going to look. I look anyway. His eyes should be glued to Gia. They aren't. His head hasn't moved an inch, but his gaze tracked me across the counter. A weird, cold prickle runs down the back of my neck. He rests his elbow on the table, bringing his hand up to his face. Slowly, deliberately, he drags his thumb across his bottom lip. His dark, piercing blue eyes locked dead onto mine. I freeze. It’s a quiet, unhurried gesture. Way too intimate for a public room. Wait. He’s actually looking at me? Why? Gia is half-naked, and I am wearing an apron covered in mocha syrup. His bone structure looks carved with a scalpel—hard, hollowed out, and unforgiving. He’s not just looking. He’s calculating. He looks like one of the monsters I only allow to exist between the pages of my manuscripts. The kind of man who views every interaction as a game he’s already won. "He's creeping me out," I mutter, spinning around so my back is to him. "He hasn't taken a single sip of that coffee." My phone buzzes in my apron pocket. I pull it out, practically lunging for the distraction. Ben: Hey beautiful. Almost done? Need me to come grab you? My shoulders drop an inch. The tense coil in my neck finally snaps. Thank God. Normalcy. My sweet, predictable, soon-to-be fiancé. Me: You’re a lifesaver. I left my car today! Should be done in thirty. I smile at the screen for a second longer than necessary before slipping the phone back into my apron. I look back up at Gia. "Hey," I say, lowering my voice. I grab a dry cloth and start polishing a clean plate. "I wanted to give you a heads-up. Julian is coming to town this weekend." Gia stops crunching her ice. Her hand hovers over the counter before she sets the plastic cup down, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the pastry case. She doesn't look at me, but her jaw ticks. A direct hit. She always aligns things when she’s trying to keep her world from spinning off its axis. "Cool," Gia says, tracing the rim of her cup. "Good for him." "I just wanted you to know," I say gently. "So you aren't caught off guard if he shows up." "I don't care what he does," she snaps. She grabs her purse, her silver bracelets clanking loudly against the counter. "Anyway. Nature calls. If your stalker comes over here, tell him my number is on the napkin." She turns and speed-walks toward the hallway that leads to the restrooms. I let out a slow breath and toss the plate aside. Then the scrape of a chair pushing back echoes across the café. Every muscle in my back locks up. I don't need to turn around. The entire atmospheric pressure of the room just shifted. I keep my eyes glued to the register. Please just walk out the door. He doesn’t. A shadow falls over the counter. The scent of sandalwood and cold air hits me first. Slowly, reluctantly, I look up. Up close, the intensity of his stare is suffocating.  He’s tall enough that I have to tilt my head back just to meet his eyes. There’s a small, pale scar near his jawline, drawing my gaze to the sharp, ruthless cut of his bone structure and the faint shadow of dark stubble clinging to his skin. He is undeniably, infuriatingly gorgeous. The kind of lethal beauty that sets off every self-preservation instinct in my body. His expression is a blank wall. Please don't ask for my number. I have a boyfriend. A good boyfriend. Who is about to propose. "Can I... help you?" I ask, my voice coming out painfully thin. He doesn't smile. He doesn't introduce himself. He just reaches into his leather coat, pulls out a black metal credit card, and slides it across the counter toward me. My eyes drop to his hand. Long fingers. Scarred knuckles. A silver ring. The physical presence of him makes the air between us feel too thin to breathe. "For the coffee," he says. His voice is a low, rough gravel that scrapes straight down my spine. Right. The coffee. Obviously. Get a grip, Liv. I swallow hard and tap the screen. I run the card and the machine beeps obnoxiously loud in the quiet space.  I hand it back to him along with the printed receipt. He takes the card. He ignores the receipt. Without breaking eye contact, he slides a folded white café napkin across the counter. He stops pushing it the exact second it brushes my fingertips. He gives me one last, calculating look, turns, and walks out the glass front doors. I stand there frozen for five full seconds, listening to the chime of the door fade away. My heart is hammering hard against my ribs. Gia strolls back out from the hallway, her phone in her hand. "Did he leave? Tell me you got his—" She stops dead when she sees my face. "Liv? You okay?" I don't answer her. I look down at the cheap paper napkin resting against my fingers. My hands tremble as I pick it up and flip it open. There is one sentence written in sharp, slash-like black ink. Ask Ben about Roxy. Or come to Velvet Tears at 10 PM and I’ll tell you. The air leaves my lungs. The pastel walls of the coffee shop blur around the edges. Roxy? Who the hell is Roxy? My hands are shaking so badly I can barely slam the cash register shut. I stare at the glass door where a complete stranger just walked out, taking my safe, predictable future with him. How does he know Ben? I don’t know what kind of twisted game this is and I don't care what that note says. I am absolutely, definitively not going to meet that man tonight.

LIV Gia snatches the napkin right out of my trembling fingers before I can shove it into my apron pocket. Her eyes dart across the slash-like black ink. She reads it once. Then she reads it again. "I fucking knew it," Gia breathes, her voice dropping into a venomous whisper. Gia loves a disaster. Especially when it proves her right. She looks up at me, her eyes wide and gleaming with vindication. "I knew it. I knew that golden-boy, Mr. Rogers routine was too good to be true. He’s fucking around." "He's not," I snap, my voice cracking on the last word. I snatch the napkin back and shove it deep into my pocket like it’s laced with poison. I look around the café. The conservative older couple already abandoned their cold teas and fled the second Gia dropped the F-bomb. Good. I couldn't survive another minute of their quiet, judgmental glaring anyway. The only customers left are two college kids packing up their laptops. "I'm serious, Liv," Gia presses, following right on my heels as I abandon the register and march straight toward the glass front doors. "What are you serious about?" "I've always said there was something off about a guy whose hair never even moves in the wind. Nobody is that polished unless they’re hiding bodies… or a side piece. He is definitely fucking around." "We’re closing!" I announce loudly to the room, cutting her off. The college kids take the hint, slinging their backpacks over their shoulders and hurrying out the side exit. The second the door shuts behind them, I grab the small plastic sign on the glass and aggressively flip it from OPEN to CLOSED. I throw the brass deadbolt with a loud, echoing clank. Then I yank the window shades down, blocking out the streetlights. Even with the shades drawn, the room feels too small. Like the glass walls are still letting that man's cold blue stare seep inside. I grab Gia by the elbow and drag her through the swinging door into the cramped back inventory room. The air in here smells of roasted espresso beans and hazelnut syrup. It smells like my boring, safe, perfectly predictable life. I desperately need predictable right now. "Liv, are you blind?" Gia demands, planting her hands on her hips. "A guy who looks like a cartel boss just walked in here and told you your fiancé—" She catches herself, rolling her eyes. "Oh wait, he hasn't proposed yet. My bad. Your soon-to-propose boyfriend is hiding a woman named Roxy. That doesn't just happen." "Exactly. It doesn't just happen," I say, pacing the narrow aisle between stacked cardboard boxes. "Which is why you should find it suspicious!" I grab a clipboard off a metal shelf and start counting bottles of caramel syrup, purely to give my shaking hands something to do. My writer's brain kicks in. It’s a defense mechanism. If I can plot it, I can control it. "What’s there to find suspicious about Ben?" I ask, tapping my pen against the clipboard. "Think about it, Gia. Logically. Ben is a sweet financial analyst who runs an indie publishing house. He doesn't have a secret life." I stop pacing and look dead at her. "But you know who does play dirty?" Gia stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. "Please don't say—" "Apex Publishing," I say. My brain moves a million miles a minute as I latch onto the only theory that doesn't end with my heart in a blender. Motive. Opportunity. Execution. "My contract is up in three months," I rush out. "They’ve been breathing down my neck, demanding I reveal my real identity to the press to boost sales. They know I want to leave. And they know Ben owns a competing house." "Liv—" "I met Ben the exact week I was having a breakdown over them. You know that, Gia!" I push on, my voice gaining strength. "He was my safe harbor because he didn't know who I was." "I still don't buy that," Gia interrupts, crossing her arms. "The man runs a publishing company, Liv. You really think he didn't know what one of the bestselling erotic horror authors in the country actually looked like?" "He didn't," I say fiercely. "Nobody knows what I look like. That's the whole point of a pen name. He fell for me. Boring, quiet Liv. And Apex knows that. They probably hired some intimidating actor to drop this note and mess with my head. They’re trying to isolate me so I don't jump ship to Ben's company. It’s a psychological game." It makes perfect sense. It has to. Gia steps directly into my path, forcing me to stop pacing. She reaches out and taps the pocket of my apron where the napkin is hidden. "Liv, your crusty, sixty-year-old publishers did not hire a guy to hand you an invite to VT." I blink. "V-what?" "Velvet Tears," Gia says slowly, pronouncing every syllable like she's explaining gravity to a toddler. "It’s not just some random bar, babe. It’s an underground casino and strip club." "A strip club?" "You heard that right." She crosses her arms. "And it’s exclusively for the top one percent. I had a guy at the lounge drop five grand on a bottle of tequila last month just to brag that he knew someone who got him past the door." "Right. Okay. Still doesn't mean—" "Liv, I'm serious. There are no signs. There are no windows. The bouncers wear custom tailored suits and carry actual firearms. You do not just walk in off the street. You have to be invited by the owner." I swallow hard, the memory of scarred knuckles and a black metal credit card flashing through my head. Invited by the owner. "Sounds like a great place to get my organs harvested," I mutter, looking away. My phone buzzes in my pocket. A literal lifeline. I pull it out with shaky hands. Ben: I grabbed Thai food. Extra peanut sauce for my girl. On my way to the coffee shop now. See you in five. Love you. I exhale a long, shaky breath and immediately shove the screen into Gia’s face. "Read it. Does that sound like a man hiding a secret woman named Roxy?" Gia reads the text, her jaw tightening. She crosses her arms over her mesh top, looking genuinely conflicted. "Fine. It sounds normal," she admits. "But Liv... if he's really innocent, then you have nothing to lose by going tonight and proving that psycho wrong." "I am not going." "Oh, come on! Did you not hear a word I just said about VT?" "I heard you loud and clear, especially the part about armed bouncers." "If that guy is casually telling you to meet him there at ten o'clock, he isn't a hired actor from your publishing house. He has serious, terrifying power." "Which is exactly why I’m not going!" I argue, gripping the clipboard to my chest like a shield. "Why would I willingly walk into a mafia-style strip club? It’s a trap." Three loud knocks rap against the metal of the back delivery door. I jump, nearly dropping the clipboard. Gia tenses beside me. "Liv? You in there?" Ben’s muffled, cheerful voice filters through the steel. "I tried the front, but you already flipped the sign." Safe. I sprint to the door and throw the deadbolt back. Ben steps into the cramped inventory room, bringing a rush of crisp evening air with him. He’s wearing a tailored navy coat, his light brown hair neatly swept back. His warm hazel eyes crinkle at the corners, softening his sharp, politician-straight jawline. In his hand is a white plastic bag that smells heavenly of pad thai and peanut sauce. He smiles, dropping a warm, lingering kiss onto my forehead. "Hey, beautiful. Ready to go?" "More than ready," I breathe, melting against the solid warmth of his chest. I shoot a sharp, triumphant look over his shoulder at Gia. See? Perfect. My future husband. She rolls her eyes to the ceiling. Ben pulls back and finally registers Gia standing by the syrup boxes. He pauses, his eyes sweeping over her black mesh top and lace bralette for a fraction of a second before he lets out a loud, good-natured laugh. "Jesus Christ, Gia, cover up, will you?" he teases, shaking his head. "There are health inspectors in this city." Gia flashes him a razor-sharp smile. "As long as you've only got eyes on your girl, Benny, it shouldn't matter what I'm wearing. Right?" Ben chuckles, completely unfazed. "Fair enough. Come on, Liv. Let's get you home." He takes the clipboard gently out of my hands, sets it on the shelf, and laces his warm fingers through mine. The napkin feels like it’s burning a hole straight through my apron. But as Ben leads me out through the back exit into the cool night air, I finally let my shoulders drop. Gia is paranoid. The guy in the corner booth was just a lunatic trying to get a rise out of me. Ben is my first love. He’s exactly who he says he is. We reach his parked sedan in the quiet alleyway, and Ben clicks the fob, pulling the passenger door open for me. "Oh, hold on," Ben murmurs, stopping right beside the open door. He reaches inside his navy coat pocket. My breath catches in my throat. Wait. Is he doing it right now? Is he going to propose right now? In a random alleyway with a bag of Thai food? Instead, a bright white light illuminates the fabric of his coat. A soft, generic ringtone fills the quiet alley. Oh.  Just his phone. He pulls it out. I’m standing right next to him, my hand resting on the top of the open car door. Ben glances down at the screen. For a fraction of a second, his warm, easy smile vanishes. It happened so fast I would have missed it if I wasn't staring directly at his face His jaw locks. His thumb hovers over the glass, and he hits the red Decline button. "Just a spam risk," Ben says smoothly, his picture-perfect smile sliding right back into place as he slips the phone into his pocket. "Get in, babe. It's freezing." He turns and walks around the hood toward the driver's side. I don't move. I stay frozen beside the open passenger door, the icy wind biting at my cheeks, my heart stopping dead in my chest. Because I saw the screen. It wasn't a spam risk. In bright, glaring white letters across the caller ID, it read: ROXY.

LIV You want to know what actual psychological torture feels like? It isn’t being locked in a dark room. It’s sitting in the heated passenger seat of a luxury car, listening to soft jazz, while the name of your boyfriend’s secret woman beats against the inside of your skull. I stare out the window at the passing streetlights, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my coat. Roxy. Roxy. Roxy. The name repeats in my head like a skipping record. It is loud enough that I’m genuinely terrified Ben can hear it echoing over the low hum of the radio. I open my mouth, the question sitting right on the tip of my tongue. All I have to do is say it. Ben, who is Roxy? But my throat tightens, and the words choke before they reach the air. Because if I ask him, I’m admitting that some terrifying stranger in a coffee shop got under my skin. I’m making the note real. And worse, I’m risking blowing up my two-year relationship over a single name on a screen. I swallow the question down and keep my eyes glued to the glass. "I hope my favorite writer isn't too exhausted," Ben says, his voice a warm, soothing rumble in the quiet cabin. "You're supposed to be finishing your manuscript, not slinging lattes all day for your sister." "It wasn't too bad," I manage, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears. "Gia was certainly in rare form tonight," he remarks, shaking his head slightly. "I know you guys have been best friends forever, Liv, but I’m always surprised by how much you tolerate her... lack of boundaries." I glance over at him. His brow is slightly furrowed, just the right amount of put-off by Gia's mesh top. He isn't a fan of people like that. He’s conservative. Traditional. He likes things quiet, polite, and put-together. God, I love him for that. Seeing his mild distaste for my best friend's wild lifestyle acts like a soothing balm over my raw nerves. A man who gets uncomfortable around a lace bralette is definitely not frequenting an underground mafia strip club. Ben reaches across the center console. He pulls my freezing hand out of my coat pocket, laces his long fingers through mine, and rests our joined hands on my thigh. I didn't even realize my fingers were trembling until his grip steadies them. The familiar warmth of his skin seeps into mine. "No weirdos gave you a hard time today?" he asks, his thumb stroking a slow circle over the back of my hand. "I know you hate dealing with the general public. You never stop reminding me how crazy people can be." I swallow the thick lump in my throat. Just one cartel-looking guy with bruised knuckles dropping your secret woman’s name on a napkin. No big deal. "Just college kids," I lie smoothly. Ben hums in approval. "Good. Oh, by the way, Julian texted me this morning. Said he's coming to town this weekend." "Yeah. He told me, too." "Honestly, the way your brother left last year, you’d think he was never planning to show his face around here again. But you know Julian. Always unpredictable." "Right," I echo quietly. "Unpredictable." By the time we pull into the underground parking garage of my apartment building, my heart rate has almost returned to normal. We ride the elevator up in comfortable silence. The second I unlock my front door and step inside, Ben sets the bag of Thai food on the entryway console table. He shrugs off his navy coat, hanging it neatly on the brass hook instead of tossing it over a chair. I lean back against the closed door, just watching him. His jaw is relaxed. His eyes are warm and clear. He looks every inch the steady, devoted man I’ve loved for two years. Roxy has to be a coworker. Maybe a freelance editor at his publishing house. Or an accountant. Wait… what if Roxy is a custom jeweler? A sudden spark of hope flares in my chest. That would explain everything. If Roxy is the woman designing my engagement ring, of course his jaw locked when she called with me standing two feet away! He had to decline it so I wouldn't get suspicious and ruin the surprise. It’s a coincidence. A stupid, terrifying coincidence. It has to be. Ben turns around and catches me staring. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. He takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us. "If you keep staring at me like that, Liv, you’re going to make it very hard for me to hold back." My breath catches. "I'm just looking at you." "Well," he murmurs, stepping right into my personal space. "Keep looking." His hands settle on my waist, turning me slightly until my back presses flush against the wooden door. Then his mouth comes down on mine, warm and familiar. I kiss him back, letting out a soft sigh as his palms slide up my sides, his thumbs tracing the curve of my ribs. It feels safe. It feels like it always does. Ben pulls back just enough to look down at me, his hazel eyes darkening. His fingers move to the top button of my blouse, unfastening it with ease. He dips his head to kiss my jaw, his breath hot against my neck as he slips the second button free. My breath catches again. Only this time, it isn't from Ben. Without warning, a sudden, violent flash of the man in the coffee shop hijacks my brain. The cold, calculating blue stare, the scarred knuckle, the way he slowly dragged his thumb across his bottom lip while looking straight into my soul. My entire body goes rigid. I plant my palms flat against Ben’s chest. "Ben..." He stops instantaneously. His hands drop away from my blouse. He doesn't sigh. He doesn't roll his eyes or look frustrated. He just takes half a step back, reaches up, and gently re-buttons my collar, his knuckles brushing softly against my collarbone. "I know," Ben murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to my forehead. "I'm sorry. You just look so beautiful tonight. But I promised I’d wait until our wedding night, Liv. No rush. I’m not going anywhere." A crushing wave of guilt washes over me. What is wrong with me? He is the most respectful, patient man on the planet. He is my first love, the man who is about to put a ring on my finger, and I’m letting a creepy stranger in a leather jacket poison my head. "Thank you," I whisper, my voice thick. Ben smiles, giving my waist one last reassuring squeeze. "Come on. Let's get this food plated before the noodles get cold." We walk into the kitchen together. I reach up into the cabinet to grab two ceramic plates, but before I can set them on the granite island, a harsh buzzing sound vibrates against the stone. Ben’s phone is sitting right next to the takeout bag. He glances down at the screen. This time, he doesn't try to hide his reaction. He lets out a loud, irritated groan and drags a hand down his face. "Shit." "What's wrong?" I ask, setting the plates down.  My stomach gives an uneasy lurch. "It’s Marcus. One of our top-earning thriller authors." "At nine o'clock at night? Did something happen?" "He’s threatening to walk over his royalty split again," Ben says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "If I don't go talk him off a ledge right now, his agent says he's going to sign with Apex by morning." The magic word. Apex. "Right now?" I glance at the microwave clock. 9:15 PM. "Ben, it's late." "I know, baby. I'm so sorry." He’s already grabbing his keys off the counter and shrugging back into his navy coat. He walks over and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. "Eat without me. I'll drive over to his hotel, smooth things over, and come straight back. Thirty minutes, tops." "Okay," I say softly, forcing a smile. "Drive safe." "Always." The front door clicks shut behind him. Silence drops over the apartment like a blanket. I stand frozen in the middle of my kitchen, staring at the brown paper takeout bag sitting untouched between two empty plates. Ask Ben about Roxy. Or come to Velvet Tears at 10 PM and I’ll tell you. 9:15 PM. Just enough time for Ben to drive across downtown before ten. No. Stop it, Liv. I pull the crumpled café napkin out of my pocket and slowly smooth it flat against the cold granite counter. Knock. Knock. Knock. Three sharp raps echo against my front door. I flinch so hard I nearly knock a plate off the island, my heart leaping straight into my throat. Did Ben forget his wallet? I hurry back to the entryway and press my eye to the brass peephole. It isn't Ben. Standing in my hallway is a man in a black uniform holding a long garment bag and a small velvet box. My pulse stutters. I unlock the deadbolt and crack the door open a few inches, keeping my foot braced against the bottom. "Can I help you?" "Olivia?" the courier asks. My blood runs cold. Nobody calls me Olivia. Not my friends, not my readers, not even the building super. Only legal documents use my full name. "Yes," I manage to croak. He holds out the garment bag and the box. "Delivery for you, ma'am." He doesn't ask for a signature. He doesn't wait for a tip. The second my numb fingers take the hanger, he turns on his heel and strides briskly back toward the elevators. I slam the door shut and throw the deadbolt, my hands shaking so hard I nearly drop the box on the hardwood floor. Like I'm moving underwater, I carry the black garment bag into the living room and lay it flat across the sofa. Slowly, I pull the zipper down. Inside is a dress cut from dark, liquid-silk emerald green. It’s breathtaking. And terrifying. A plunging neckline, an open back, and a thigh-high slit that borders on illegal. It’s clearly couture, worth more than my monthly rent, and light-years outside my comfort zone. I literally do not own a single piece of clothing like it. And worse, just by looking at the waist, I know it is my exact size. My breath hitches. I shove the silk aside and pop open the small box. Resting on a bed of black velvet is a matte-gold keycard. Engraved in the dead center is a single weeping eye. Velvet Tears. Tucked directly underneath the keycard is a thick square of black cardstock. I pick it up with trembling fingers. The exact same sharp, slash-like black handwriting from the café napkin fills the center of the card: He told you he’d be right back, didn't he? He's not coming back tonight. Put the dress on. The car is waiting downstairs. I stare at the ink, the dead silence of my apartment roaring in my ears. Slowly, I lift my head and look at the kitchen clock. 9:22 PM. My sweet, predictable boyfriend is gone. And the monster from the coffee shop knows his schedule better than I do.