1. Lena #3
He orders without looking at the prices. Wine that I absolutely cannot pronounce. An appetizer that sounds like it requires a trust fund to appreciate.
“Get whatever you want,” he says when I hesitate over the menu.
“I don’t need lobster to survive,” I reply lightly.
He smiles. “Tonight you don’t have to survive.”
The sentence is charming. And strange.
I laugh it off. Maybe he’s just dramatic. Maybe I’m just paranoid.
The food arrives, plated like art. The wine is smooth and expensive in a way that makes me nervous to hold the glass wrong.
He asks about work. About my degree. About how long I’ve lived here.
He listens closely. Too closely.
“So no family in the city?” he asks casually.
“None anywhere,” I reply, forcing a small shrug. “Makes moving easier.”
His gaze sharpens for a fraction of a second. “Interesting,” he murmurs.
“What is?”
“Nothing.” He takes a slow sip of his wine.
The unease presses in again, faint but persistent.
But the harbor is beautiful. The food is incredible. He’s charming and attentive and clearly loaded. This is just a nice dinner.
I tell myself that twice. Three times.
When my phone vibrates in my purse, I don’t check it. I should, but I don’t. Because for one night, I want to believe this is simple. Just a date. Just a man with too much money and a perfect smile. Just a nice dinner by the harbor.
The first red flag is small. So small I almost ignore it.
The wine is good. Too good.
Smooth. Expensive. It slides down easily, warms my chest in a way that feels indulgent instead of reckless. I tell myself to slow down, but he keeps my glass topped off with casual precision.
“You barely touched your appetizer,” he observes.
“I eat like a raccoon,” I reply lightly. “Small, defensive bites.”
He smiles, but his eyes don’t leave my face. Not when I lift the glass. Not when I swallow.
It’s not admiration. It’s assessment.
“So,” he says, resting his chin lightly on his hand. “No parents. No siblings. No one waiting at home?”
His tone isn’t mocking. It’s curious.
Too curious.
I laugh it off. “You’re very invested in my tragic backstory for a first date.”
“I like to understand what I’m working with.”
The phrasing makes something cold curl in my stomach.
Working with.
Not getting to know.
I shift in my seat.
The restaurant is still quiet. The couple near the window left ten minutes ago. I didn’t notice them being replaced. The staff moves almost silently. The host hasn’t looked our direction once since we sat down.
“Is this place always this empty?” I ask.
“It’s better that way,” he says smoothly. “Less… interruption.”
Interruption of what?
I pick up my phone under the table and glance at it briefly. Three messages from Jess.
Jess: Can’t find him anywhere.
Jess: That’s weird.
Jess: Send me his pic again.
A flicker of unease moves through me.
I look up.
He’s watching me. Not even pretending not to.
Not annoyed. Just watching.
“You look tense,” he says gently. “You don’t trust easily, do you?”
“I work in customer service,” I reply. “Trust is a luxury.”
He smiles at that, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He reaches across the table, not touching me, just close enough that I feel the proximity. “You can relax,” he says quietly.
“I am relaxed.”
He smiles. “You’re not.”
The room feels warmer. Or maybe that’s just the wine.
My head feels a little heavier than it did a few minutes ago. That’s probably the alcohol.
I smile politely, already deciding there won’t be a second date. In fact, if this keeps getting stranger, I might not even finish the first one.
The harbor lights outside blur slightly when I glance toward the window.
Strange.
“I should probably head out soon,” I say, setting my glass down. “Early shift.”
He tilts his head. “Already?” The word stretches longer than it needs to.
“I don’t usually do spontaneous weeknight harbor luxury,” I say lightly. “I might not survive it.”
He chuckles. “You’re safe,” he says again.
Safe. There’s that word.
My pulse stutters. The room tilts almost imperceptibly. The edge of the table feels farther away than it should.
Okay. That’s new.
I blink hard. “Did you—” I start, then stop because my tongue feels slightly thick.
He’s still smiling, but now it’s softer. Satisfied.
“You okay?” he asks, voice lowering.
I try to sit up straighter. “Yes,” I say, except it comes out slower than I mean it to.
The lights above us stretch faintly. The candle flame wavers. My limbs feel distant.
This isn’t wine. This is something else.
I push my chair back, meaning to stand. It takes more effort than it should.
“What did you—” I try again, but the words smear.
His hand comes around the back of my chair, steadying it. “Easy,” he murmurs.
The word sounds like reassurance, but it isn’t.
My phone slips from my fingers and lands somewhere near my feet. I try to reach for it, but my arm doesn’t respond properly.
The harbor lights blur completely.
The last thing I register is Ethan leaning closer, his voice near my ear. “You really should not have trusted me.”
Then everything goes dark.