Lila woke to cold sheets and the hollow silence of an empty bed.

The space beside her still smelled like Adrian—like cedar and sex and something darker, something she couldn’t name. Her body ached in the best way, memories of last night flashing behind her eyelids every time she blinked. His hands on her. His mouth. The way he had looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And then—nothing.

She sat up, the silk sheet pooling at her waist as her fingers brushed the crumpled note on his pillow.

“Gone to work. Talk to you later.”

Her stomach twisted.

“Don’t answer the door.”

A chill slithered down her spine.

Before she could dissect the warning, her phone buzzed violently on the nightstand—a flood of missed calls from Mia. Twelve of them. Three voicemails.

Lila’s thumb hovered over the screen, dread curling in her chest. Mia never called this many times. Not unless—

She hit call back.

Mia answered on the first ring.

“Oh my God, Lila—” Her voice was raw, broken. Sobbing.

Lila’s blood turned to ice. “Mia? What’s wrong?”

A shuddering breath. Then—

“Chloe’s dead.”

The words didn’t make sense. They couldn’t. Chloe—bright, reckless, alive Chloe—had been at her usual bar last night like every night. She’d been laughing, flirting, tossing her hair over her shoulder like she always did.

“What?” Lila whispered.

“They’re saying it was a hit-and-run.” Mia’s voice cracked. “Some bastard left her in the street like trash—”

Lila’s hands shook so badly she almost dropped the phone. Her vision tunneled, the room tilting around her.

No. No.

She scrambled out of bed, her legs unsteady as she yanked open her laptop with trembling fingers. The news alert was the first thing that popped up.

LOCAL WOMAN KILLED IN EARLY MORNING HIT-AND-RUN

Her stomach lurched.

There was a photo beneath the headline—grainy, taken from a security camera. A figure in a dark hoodie standing near the intersection where Chloe had been struck. The timestamp read 4:17 AM.

Lila’s breath stopped.

The man’s face was shadowed, his posture tense, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. But she knew that stance. Knew the broad set of those shoulders.

Knew him.

Adrian.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

No. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

But then—why the note? Why the warning? Why the way he’d looked at her last night like she was something he needed to possess, to protect, to keep?

Her phone buzzed again. An unknown number.

Her thumb moved before she could think.

The message was a single line:

You shouldn’t have looked.

And then—

A knock at the door...