CHAPTER 1
THE GHOST
POV: IVY
The walk home from St. Patrick’s feels longer than usual today.
New York in January is a cruel, biting beast. The wind whips off the Hudson, cutting through the threadbare wool of my coat like it’s made of lace.
I pull the collar up higher, burying my chin in the scratchy fabric, but the cold still finds a way in.
It settles in the hollow of my throat, a phantom hand squeezing just tight enough to make breathing a conscious effort.
My knuckles are white where I grip the strap of my tote bag. Inside, my sketchbook and art history textbook jostle against each other, a heavy, familiar weight.
I keep my head down, watching my boots crush the slushy gray snow on the sidewalk, but my senses are dialed up to a painful frequency. Every car horn makes me flinch. Every shadow stretching from the alleyways seems to reach for me.
He’s here.
I don’t see him. I never see him. But the sensation is so visceral, so undeniable, it’s like a second heartbeat thumping in my chest. A prickle at the nape of my neck.
A sudden drop in air pressure. It’s the feeling of gravity shifting, centering not on the earth, but on a point somewhere behind me.
I stop at the crosswalk on 5th Avenue, waiting for the light to change. I risk a glance over my shoulder.
Nothing but a sea of strangers. Tourists in bright puffer jackets, businessmen shouting into phones, a homeless man rattling a cup of coins. No one is looking at me. No one cares about Ivy Ross, the twenty-year-old art student struggling to make rent on a shoebox apartment in the Lower East Side.
And yet, my skin burns.
The memory of the confession booth floods back to me, making my cheeks flush hot despite the freezing wind. I can still hear the tremble in my own voice, confessing my sickness to Father Michael.
I feel safe. I feel... wanted.
God, I’m pathetic. I told a priest—a man of God—that I fantasize about a stalker. That instead of calling the police, I lay awake at night touching myself to the idea of a faceless man watching me from the dark.
Father Michael’s reaction had been... wrong. I shudder, recalling the slick, hungry tone in his voice when he invited me to the rectory. To ensure you are truly repentant.
I feel a sudden wave of nausea. The church was supposed to be a sanctuary, a place to scrub the grime of the city off my soul. Instead, it just felt like another trap. Another place where men look at me like I’m something to be consumed.
The light changes. I hurry across the street, my pace quickening. I need to get home. I need to lock the door, crawl under my weighted blanket, and pretend the world doesn’t exist until my morning lecture.
My apartment building is a crumbling pre-war walk-up that smells perpetually of boiled cabbage and damp plaster. The front door’s lock is temperamental, requiring a specific jiggle to open, but today, it unlatches smoothly. Too smoothly.
I frown, pushing it open. Maybe the super finally fixed it.
I climb the four flights of stairs, my thighs burning. The hallway is dim, half the bulbs burned out, casting long, flickering shadows against the peeling wallpaper. I reach my door—Apartment 4B—and fumble for my keys.
My hand freezes mid-air.
The door is unlocked.
Not just unlocked. It’s slightly ajar. Just a crack, barely an inch, but it’s enough to send a bolt of ice straight down my spine.
I didn't leave it like that. I am obsessive about locks. I check them three times before I leave. I know I locked it.
"Hello?" I call out, my voice thin and wavering.
Silence answers me.
Every survival instinct I have screams at me to run. To turn around, run down the stairs, and call 911. That’s what a smart girl would do. That’s what a sane girl would do.
But I don’t move. I stand there, staring at the slice of darkness beyond the door, paralyzed by a terrifying curiosity.
Is it him?
The thought isn't a fear response. It’s a hope. And that scares me more than any intruder could.
I push the door open with my fingertips. It swings inward silently.
"Is anyone there?" I whisper, stepping across the threshold.
The apartment is empty. It’s a studio, barely big enough for a bed and a kitchenette, so there are very few places to hide. The closet door is closed. The bathroom door is open.
But the air... the air is different.
Usually, my apartment smells like vanilla candles and turpentine. Today, that scent is buried under something heavier. Darker.
Masculine.
It’s subtle—rich sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and the crisp, metallic tang of winter air clinging to a wool coat. It smells like money. It smells like danger. It smells like the man I’ve been dreaming about.
I drop my bag on the floor, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I move slowly through the small space, my eyes scanning every inch.
Nothing seems out of place at first. My unmade bed is still a mess of pillows. My easel is still set up by the window, covered in a half-finished charcoal sketch. The stack of dirty dishes is still in the sink (God, I’m embarrassed he saw that).
I walk to the window. The fire escape outside is empty, the metal rusted and covered in snow. I check the lock on the window.
It’s brand new.
I gasp, my fingers tracing the shiny, heavy-duty steel latch. This wasn't here this morning. My old lock was a flimsy piece of brass that barely held together. This is industrial-grade. Impenetrable.
He was here. He fixed my window.
My legs feel weak. I sink down onto the edge of my bed, my mind reeling. Why? Why would a stalker reinforce my security? Unless... unless he wants to keep me in. Or keep everyone else out.
I run my hand across my duvet, and my fingers brush against something cold.
I look down.
Resting in the center of my pillow, stark against the white cotton case, is a box.
It’s black velvet, small and square. No card. No note. Just the box, sitting there like a dark promise.
My breath hitches. I shouldn't touch it. I should call the police immediately. This is evidence. This is escalation.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely lift it. The velvet is soft under my fingertips. I open the lid.
The breath leaves my lungs in a sharp woosh.
Nestled in the black satin is a necklace. But not just any necklace. It’s a choker made of black diamonds, set in white gold. In the center hangs a small, intricate pendant: a silver birdcage. Inside the cage, a tiny, ruby heart swings freely.
It’s exquisite. It’s terrifying. It’s worth more than my tuition, my rent, and my life combined.
I stare at it, mesmerized. The diamonds catch the dim light from the streetlamp outside, glittering like malicious little stars.
Why?
Why me? I’m nobody. I have nothing to offer a man who can afford this.
I lift the necklace from the box. It feels heavy, cold like ice. Without thinking—driven by a trance-like compulsion—I bring it to my neck.
I fasten the clasp. It clicks shut with a definitive sound.
It fits perfectly. Not too loose, not too tight. It rests against the hollow of my throat, right where my pulse is fluttering wildly. I walk to the small, cracked mirror above my dresser.
I look at my reflection. My eyes are wide, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them. My hair is messy from the wind. But the necklace... it claims me. It looks like a collar.
A branded possession.
I lift my hand to touch the little birdcage pendant. As I do, I notice something on the mirror.
Writing.
It’s written in the dust that accumulates on the top corner of the glass. Just one word, traced by a large, gloved finger.
MINE.
A whimper escapes my throat. I spin around, scanning the room again, suddenly feeling the weight of his gaze. The apartment feels smaller now. The walls feel closer.
He’s not here physically, but his presence is suffocating. He was in my room. He touched my things. He laid this box on my pillow. He stood in front of this mirror and wrote that word while looking at the reflection of my empty bed.
I rush to the window and look down at the street.
Four stories down, parked illegally by a fire hydrant, is a sleek black sedan. The windows are tinted so dark they look like voids. It’s out of place among the beat-up taxis and delivery trucks.
As I watch, the rear window rolls down just an inch.
I can’t see inside. It’s too dark. But I see the flare of a lighter. A brief, orange flame illuminating a strong jawline and the tip of a cigarette.
He’s waiting. He wanted me to find it. He wanted to see me wearing it.
Can he see me now? Can he see the diamonds glittering at my throat?
I should step away. I should close the blinds.
Instead, I press my hand against the cold glass. My nipples harden painfully against the fabric of my bra, a jolt of arousal shooting straight to my core, hot and shameful.
I don’t pull away. I stand there, displayed for him, wearing his collar.
"Who are you?" I whisper to the glass, my breath fogging the pane.
The car engine rumbles to life—a low, predatory growl that vibrates through the pavement. The window rolls up. The car pulls away slowly, disappearing into the traffic of the city night.
I’m left alone in the silence of my apartment, clutching the birdcage at my throat.
I sink to the floor, my knees finally giving out. I pull my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth. I’m terrified. I’m confused.
And God help me, I can’t wait for him to come back.
My hand drifts down, sliding between my thighs. I shouldn't. It’s sick. It’s wrong. The priest was right; I need to guard my body.
But my body doesn't belong to me anymore.
I close my eyes, picturing the man in the car. The jawline. The smoke. The size of him that I sensed in the confession booth shadows.
Mine, the mirror said.
"Yours," I whisper into the empty room.
I stroke myself through my jeans, the friction sharp and electric. I think about the lock on the window. He locked me in. He wants me safe. He wants me kept.
The climax hits me fast, a hard, shuddering release that leaves me gasping for air, tears prickling in the corners of my eyes. It feels like a betrayal of my own survival instincts, but it also feels like the first honest thing I’ve done in years.
I lie on the floor as my breathing evens out, the cold metal of the necklace warming against my skin.
This isn't a game. I know that now.
The ghost is real.
And he’s not going to let me go.