The second week in the penthouse began with another bouquet.

Serena found it waiting for her on the dining table, as though it had been placed there with the utmost care. This one was different—smaller than the previous arrangements but no less exquisite. The roses’ deep red petals glistened in the morning light, so vibrant they looked almost artificial.

Her pulse quickened as she approached the table, every nerve in her body screaming for her to leave the room. But curiosity overpowered caution, and she leaned closer.

No note this time. No black ink heart.

The absence of a message was somehow worse.

Serena’s stomach twisted as she backed away from the table, her mind racing. She had locked the door before bed. She was certain of it. The penthouse was on the top floor, accessible only by elevator, and the building had a doorman.

How was this happening?

Her fingers itched to call the police, but what could she tell them? “Someone keeps leaving me flowers” didn’t exactly scream emergency. And besides, what if they didn’t believe her?

She sank into the nearest chair, her head in her hands. The faint scent of roses filled the air, teasing her senses and setting off a prickling in her nose. She sneezed once, then again, her allergies flaring with a vengeance.

Her hands shook as she pulled a tissue from the box on the counter. The thought of leaving the penthouse crossed her mind for the first time. But where would she go?

This was her home now.

The bouquets kept coming.

Every morning, without fail, Serena found a new arrangement waiting for her. They appeared in different places each time—on the dining table, on the kitchen counter, even on her nightstand. The flowers were always fresh, their petals unblemished and their fragrance overwhelming.

No notes accompanied them, no explanation. Just roses.

By the fifth day, paranoia had taken root.

Serena began double-checking the locks every night, securing the windows, and leaving lights on in every room. She scoured the penthouse for hidden cameras, pulling furniture away from the walls and unscrewing light fixtures. She even called the doorman, demanding to know if anyone had come up to her floor.

“No one’s been here, Miss Hale,” he said, sounding exasperated. “I’d have told you if they had.”

But she didn’t believe him.

She started to feel eyes on her, a prickling at the back of her neck that refused to go away. The feeling was strongest at night, when the penthouse was quiet and the city lights below cast flickering shadows on the walls.

She tried to tell herself it was her imagination, that the stress of moving and her grandmother’s death was playing tricks on her. But the weight of unseen eyes grew heavier with each passing day, suffocating her.

The breaking point came on a Friday evening.

Serena had just come home from a long day at work, her nerves frayed and her patience nonexistent. She was tired, angry, and desperately in need of a quiet evening.

But as she stepped into the living room, she froze.

Another bouquet sat on the coffee table.

Her hands clenched into fists as she stared at the roses, her vision swimming. She had locked the door. She knew she had locked the door.

The sight of the flowers sent her over the edge.

“Enough!” she shouted, her voice echoing through the penthouse. “Whoever you are, stop this! Just stop!”

Her chest heaved as she stood there, waiting for a response that never came. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant hum of the city below.

Tears welled in her eyes as she collapsed onto the couch, burying her face in her hands.

“Please,” she whispered. “Just leave me alone.”

The penthouse offered no answers, its grand walls as silent and impassive as ever.

The next morning, Serena woke with a pounding headache. The events of the previous night felt like a distant nightmare, but the tension in her chest reminded her that it had been all too real.

She shuffled into the kitchen, intent on making coffee, when she saw it: another bouquet.

Her breath caught in her throat as she approached the counter, her eyes scanning the arrangement for a note.

And there it was.

Tucked into the flowers was a small white envelope, its edges crisp and its surface unmarred.

Her fingers trembled as she opened it, pulling out a single slip of paper.

For the allergies.

Accompanying the note was a bottle of allergy pills and a box of eye drops, both brand-new and sealed.

Serena stared at the items in disbelief, her mind struggling to make sense of what she was seeing.

The message was clear: whoever was leaving the flowers knew about her allergies.

A fresh wave of fear washed over her as she turned the bottle over in her hands. It was an over-the-counter brand, the kind she usually bought herself. The pills were still sealed, the packaging pristine.

She wanted to throw them away, to flush them down the toilet and pretend she had never seen them. But her allergies had been unbearable, and she was desperate for relief.

After a long moment of hesitation, she opened the bottle and swallowed a pill, washing it down with a glass of water.

The eye drops followed, the cool liquid soothing her irritated eyes.

For the first time in days, she could breathe without sneezing.

But the relief was fleeting.

As she stood in the kitchen, the bouquet of roses still sitting on the counter, a chilling thought crept into her mind.

Whoever was leaving the flowers didn’t just know where she lived.

They were watching her.

Over the next few days, Serena became hyper-aware of her surroundings. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of fabric, every flicker of light set her on edge.

She began keeping a knife in her pocket, the weight of it comforting even if she wasn’t sure she’d have the courage to use it.

She avoided the roses as much as possible, leaving the bouquets to wither in their vases until their petals curled and fell. But the smell lingered, clinging to the air like a ghostly presence.

She also started noticing other small things: the faint indentation on the couch cushions, as though someone had been sitting there. The smudges on the windows, too high for her to reach. The feeling of warmth in a room that should have been cold.

The penthouse no longer felt like a home.

It felt like a trap.

One night, Serena woke to the sound of whispering.

She bolted upright, her heart pounding as she strained to hear. The sound was faint, almost indistinguishable from the hum of the city, but it was there—soft, insistent, and impossibly close.

She grabbed the knife from her nightstand and crept through the penthouse, her breath shallow and her steps silent.

The whispering stopped as she reached the living room, replaced by the faint rustle of fabric.

Her eyes darted to the couch, where she saw it: another bouquet of roses, the petals glistening in the moonlight.

Her hands shook as she approached the coffee table, her grip on the knife tightening. This bouquet was different—larger than the others, the roses so dark they were almost black.

Nestled among the flowers was another note.

She didn’t want to read it. She didn’t want to know.

But she couldn’t stop herself.

With trembling fingers, she unfolded the paper, her breath hitching as she read the words scrawled in familiar black ink.

Sweet dreams, Serena.

The knife slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor.

For the first time since moving into the penthouse, Serena realized she wasn’t just being watched.

She was being hunted