The raindrops hit the glass hard, pounding against the massive windows right beside your bed. Dark trees stretched as far as the eye could see, their twisted branches lost in the stormy night. It had been one week since you moved into your grandmother’s old mansion. Inside, the mansion was a labyrinth of velvet-draped corridors and forgotten rooms. The grand staircase, its mahogany banister smooth from decades of trailing fingers, led to halls where the silence pressed in like a held breath. Since you were a child, you had been writing stories whenever an idea struck, and now, you were a writer. The only person who visited you often was your best friend, Daya, who worked for a hacking company named L. But once she was gone, hell set itself on fire. A shadow outside, watching. Always watching you. His presence made goosebumps rise on your skin—especially when you heard footsteps in the kitchen, even though you had locked all the doors. And in the morning, there would always be a single rose on the counter. One time, he went too far. He cut off your one-night stand’s hands—just because they had touched you. In his mind, you were his. You had only seen his face a few times, but the scar stood out—a jagged line running down over his eye. He was obsessed. Addicted to you. And he wouldn’t stop until you were unconditionally his. Tonight, his shadow stood beside your bed.

“Cat got your tongue, little mouse?” his voice washed over you, deep and dark, as endless as his black eyes.

“What do you want from me?” you choked out.

“I want you to understand that you will never get rid of me, Madeline. I know everything about you, and I always will, mouse. You’re mine. And until those words come out of those pretty pink lips, I will keep reminding you” his voice was calm, almost gentle, but he growled the last part softly, a quiet promise. And with that, he laid a rose on the sheets—and left.