Chapter 3 - Eve
The next morning, still thinking of that weird dream I had of a man standing over my bed, I stop at the boutique to pick up the gown I ordered for tomorrow's masked ball. The invitation arrived last week—heavy card stock with elegant script inviting me to an annual charity gala, organized by something called the Elysian Club. I’d never heard of this organization, and normally I'd skip these events, but something about the invitation intrigued me.
Plus, it's important to be seen, to maintain connections even when my business is crumbling.
The bell chimes as I enter, and Mrs. Hampton greets me with her usual warm smile. For a moment, I let myself relax into the normalcy of it.
"Miss Sinclair! Your gown is ready."
As she rings me up, I notice Mr. Sterling, my building's superintendent, waiting near the counter. He's got that perpetually annoyed expression he always wears, and my stomach tightens. I already know this conversation won't go well.
"Mr. Sterling," I say, keeping my voice pleasant despite the anxiety churning in my gut. "I've been meaning to mention—the security light in the second-floor hallway has been out for three days now."
He barely glances at me. "I'll get to it when I get to it, Miss Sinclair. I've got twelve units to manage."
"I know, but it's really dark at night. I've nearly tripped a couple of times.
" I keep my voice friendly, not wanting to start a confrontation.
I hate confrontation—it makes my stomach churn and reminds me too much of my parents fighting after Alex died.
The yelling. The blame. The way our house became a mausoleum of grief and anger.
"You've got locks on your door, don't you?" He picks up his dry cleaning. "I'll add it to the list."
He's already walking away before I can respond, and I feel that familiar flush of frustration and helplessness. Why can't I ever stand up for myself in moments like this? Why do I always back down?
Mrs. Hampton gives me a sympathetic look as she hands over my gown. "He's not the most attentive, that one."
I manage a smile, but the unease from last night has crept back. The broken light. The dismissive super. Everything feels like it's fraying at the edges. Like the universe is conspiring to make me feel unsafe.
That evening, I seek refuge in my favorite bookstore. It's a tiny independent place tucked between a café and a vintage record shop, and it smells like old paper and possibility. I wander the aisles, trailing my fingers along spines, looking for something to quiet my mind.
This is my ritual when the world feels too loud. Books have always been my escape—stories where everything makes sense in the end. Where good triumphs and bad is punished, and the broken pieces fit back together.
If only life worked that way.
In the poetry section, a slim volume catches my eye. Deep burgundy cover, gold lettering: "Selected Works of Rainer Maria Rilke."
My breath catches. It used to be my favorite when I was a teenager. My parents gave me a copy for my fourteenth birthday, and I read it until the pages fell out. After they died, I couldn't bear to look at it. Donated it with all of my old things because keeping them hurts too much.
I've never seen this edition here before. Delighted and confused, I pull it from the shelf, and something flutters to the floor.
A black rose.
Perfect and preserved, its petals still soft. It's beautiful in a dark, unsettling way.
My heart begins to race, that same panicked rhythm from last night.
I pick it up with trembling fingers and look around. A few customers browse nearby, oblivious. The bookseller is at his counter, helping someone.
No one is watching me.
But someone left this here. Someone knew I would find it. Someone knew about Rilke, about my teenage obsession with this exact collection of poems.
The realization hits like ice water: the perfume, the book, now this. Someone is orchestrating all of it. Someone is watching me, not just in my apartment but out here, in the world. Someone who knows things about me that nobody should know.
But who? Who knows these details about me? Lucy doesn't even know about my Rilke obsession.
I want to run. Want to scream.
Get yourself together, my survival instinct says.
Who would do this? Why? What does he want from me?
I tuck the rose into my purse and buy the book, my hands still shaking. The bookseller asks if I'm okay—apparently I look as terrified as I feel—and I lie and say I'm fine.
I'm not fine. I haven't been fine in sixteen years.
That evening, I meet Lucy at our favorite bar. She's already there, and the concern on her face is immediate. She stands when she sees me, like she's ready to catch me if I fall.
"You sounded weird on the phone," she says as I slide into the booth. "What's going on? You're scaring me."
I pull out the black rose and set it on the table.
"That's... beautiful? And creepy?" Lucy stares at it, then at me. "Eve, what is this?"
And then it all comes out—the misplaced book, the perfume, the rose. With each detail, Lucy's expression grows more horrified. She grabs my hand across the table, holding tight like she's afraid I might disappear.
"Eve, oh my God. You have to call the police. Someone is in your home."
"I know." My voice sounds strange even to my own ears. Distant. Like I'm talking about someone else's life. "I know."
"Then why aren't you more freaked out?" Lucy's voice rises, drawing looks from nearby tables. She doesn't care. "Why are you just sitting here? Why didn't you call me immediately? Why—" She stops, searching my face. "Oh my God. You're intrigued."
I look away, shame burning in my chest. "I'm not—"
"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.