That’s when I see it.
The envelope is on the floor just outside the main door, pressed flat against the dark stone like it wants to be noticed, and itsucceeds because it is aggressively pink. Not subtle pink. Not tasteful pink. The kind of pink that could be used as a warning label.
I freeze.
For a split second, I tell myself it’s nothing. A flyer. A delivery mix-up. Some weird rich-building nonsense I don’t understand.
I bend and pick it up.
No name. No return address. Just my name written across the front in black marker.
Lila.
My pulse kicks up a notch as I open it.
Stay away, Lila.
That’s it. No flourish. No explanation. Three words that land heavier than they should.
I stand there longer than I mean to, staring at the paper, suddenly very aware of how quiet the hallway is and how alone I am in a space that stopped feeling playful about two seconds ago. Whoever left this knew where to find me, and they wanted me to see it on my way out.
I fold the note carefully and tuck it into my bag, because I don’t know what else to do with it and because panicking in a billionaire’s hallway feels like poor form. I lock the door behind me, double-checking it like Ethan asks, and head for the elevator.
By the time I reach the lobby, the high of my new relationship has settled into something sharper and more complicated. Istill want him. That hasn’t changed. But now there’s a question sitting between us that I didn’t put there and didn’t invite.
As I step outside and head toward my battered car, the city noise rushing back around me, I glance up at the building one last time.
Whatever this is, it’s no longer just between us.
I get home on autopilot, park crooked like I don’t care who notices, and sit in my car for a full minute with my hands still on the steering wheel because my body hasn’t caught up to the fact that I’m safe and alone and not being watched by anyone in a marble hallway. When I finally move, it’s slow and careful, like sudden motion might crack something open that I’m not ready to deal with yet.
Inside my apartment, everything feels aggressively normal. The couch sags in the same place. The kitchen light flickers when I turn it on. There’s a mug in the sink that I didn’t wash yesterday. The contrast is jarring and I let it be, because at least this space doesn’t expect anything from me.
I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and make tea, the kind with ginger and honey that pretends to solve emotional problems by warming your hands. I carry it to the couch, curl my legs under me, and stare at my phone like it might confess something if I wait long enough.
Calling in sick feels like the right move. I type the message twice before sending it, keeping it simple, polite, non-alarming. Headache. Not feeling well. Back tomorrow. I don’t mention that my brain is doing gymnastics it didn’t train for.
My friends’ group chat is already active, which feels rude but also comforting. I scroll back through messages aboutsomeone’s terrible date, someone else’s broken washing machine, and a long debate about whether oat milk is a scam. Normal problems. I type, delete, type again.
Me: I did something impulsive and now I’m questioning my entire personality.
Three dots appear immediately.
Priya: That’s not helpful. Start over.
Dani: Did your date end badly? It’s the same guy, right?
Jo: Are you ok?
Pause. I’d told them I was going on another date. It’s time the truth came out.
Me: The date was perfect. Yes, same guy. Yes, I’ve slept with him.
That gets reactions. Too many reactions.
Dani: Who?
Jo: Calm down, Dani. She’ll tell us when she’s ready. Lila, are you in trouble?
