Chapter 5 Chapter Five: The Invitation

I wake to my phone buzzing on the nightstand, a harsh ripple through the half-dream where I was running down endless hallways, always turning the wrong way. Morning light is thin behind the blinds. Alex is already gone—work or coffee or maybe just needing air. The bed is cold, sheets twisted where I tried to chase sleep and never found it. The apartment feels emptied of comfort, like a stage set after the show. I stare at the ceiling, half-hoping I’ll fall back asleep, but my nerves fizz and crackle under my skin.

Notifications blur on my screen: a dozen work emails, a meme from Priya (a dancing cat with a glittery crown, her attempt at reassurance), and, at the bottom, something formal and strange:

Dear Ms. Hart,

On behalf of the City Business Alliance, we are pleased to invite you as a featured guest to our private networking dinner tomorrow evening. Your recent work at the conference was highly regarded. Please RSVP at your earliest convenience.

Cordially,

The Committee

I read it twice. I don’t remember applying for anything like this. The sender’s address is bland and corporate. My first thought is scam; my second is something colder. I check the address for phishing, click on nothing. Still, my skin prickles.

Before I can decide, a new email pings—this time from my boss, sent to the whole team:

Congrats, Lena! What an opportunity. Can’t wait to hear all about it!

No way out now. I reply yes, hands shaking, and try to swallow the feeling that something is wrong.

I dress for work in the quiet, lock up, and double check the hallway behind me. I tell myself not to be ridiculous. But in the elevator, a man I don’t know gets on, stands too close, never looks at me. I get off two floors early, my pulse hammering, just to be alone.

The day spins: meetings, a call from Alex (distant, distracted—he tells me his day is slammed, but asks if I’m okay with a note of forced cheer), lunch with Priya, who is full of plans for what I’ll wear. She FaceTimes me from her desk, pulling half her closet into view. “Wear something that says ‘I’m impossible to forget,’” she teases. “Or at least, ‘don’t mess with me.’ You’ve got that look when you’re nervous. The one that makes men apologize for breathing.”

I try to laugh, but Priya’s smile falters for a second. “Hey, you good?”

I hesitate too long. “Yeah, just tired. Conference burnout.”

She studies me through the screen, eyes narrowed. “You sure?”

“Promise.”

She lets it go, switching to shoe debates and lipstick. We settle on a deep blue dress. “You’ll look like a goddess. Text me the second you get there,” she insists. “If they serve shrimp, I’ll riot.”

That afternoon, the sky turns the color of dirty cotton. Every time I glance at the street, I see the same black sedan idling two blocks away, headlights off, engine running. I watch for ten minutes, telling myself it’s an Uber, a neighbor, nothing at all. But every hair on my arms stands up.

A coworker startles me at my desk, and I almost scream. By three, I close my blinds, claiming a migraine. The quiet is worse—now every creak of the building, every hallway footstep sounds deliberate. My group chat pings. I can’t bring myself to answer.

Back home, I check the locks, twice, three times. I shower with the door open, curtain half-drawn. I blast music from my phone, but the echo in the apartment makes every song sound like it’s playing in an empty hall. There’s a delivery for someone else, but the knock on the door makes my whole body jerk and spill conditioner down my arm. I’m still shaking as I sign for it.

Alex gets home late, apologetic, but his presence is all surface—he’s absorbed in his phone, scrolling and replying to Slack even as I set the table. I try to talk about my day, the invitation, the car outside. He half-listens, nodding, then says, “I’m sure it’s nothing, babe. You get these moods after big events.” There’s an edge in his voice, something tight. I want to snap at him, but the energy dies before it can spark.

We eat dinner in the soft glow of the kitchen light. He tells me a story about his boss, laughs too hard at his own joke, then trails off when he sees I’m not laughing. I try to apologize, but I don’t know what for. The silence between us stretches, weighted.

He brushes my hair off my neck and kisses me, gentle and absentminded. “Just be careful, okay? Some of those work people can be pushy.” I nod, promising nothing. After dinner, he disappears into the bedroom, mumbling about emails. I stay at the table, watching the window for headlights.

After he falls asleep, I lie awake, watching headlights crawl across the ceiling, listening for footsteps, heart pounding as if I’m being chased. At midnight, I scroll back through the invitation. The sender’s address is gone—deleted, as if it was never there. I scroll through my texts to Priya, wondering if I’m being paranoid, but the unease stays.

My phone buzzes—a new text from an unknown number:

Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. Wear blue.

No name. I freeze, heart in my throat. The message blinks on the screen, ordinary but precise. I delete it, hands shaking, then block the number. But the words feel branded on my skin.

I leave the lamp on. I watch the window. And even as my eyes close, I know I won’t dream about anything but running.

✧ ✧ ✧

The next morning, I move through the motions—coffee, makeup, staring into the fridge without appetite. I call Priya just to hear her voice, and she answers on the second ring, launching into questions about lipstick and bag choice. Her easy chatter calms me a little, but when I hang up, the apartment feels twice as empty.

I try to work, but keep checking the street for that car. It isn’t there. Maybe it never was. I check the locks, then get dressed, slow and methodical, as if the right dress will keep me safe. I choose the blue, the one from the text.

Alex comes out, adjusting his glasses, hair still damp from his shower. He looks at me for a long moment. "You look beautiful," he says, then frowns. "Promise you’ll text me if anything’s weird?"

I nod, managing a smile. "Promise." But my voice doesn’t sound like mine.

He kisses my cheek, gives my hand a squeeze, then leaves for work. I hear his keys jangling down the hallway, the thump of the door shutting. Alone again, I check my phone for new messages. There are none.

✧ ✧ ✧

That evening, the city feels close and watchful. I order a rideshare and stand on the curb, clutching my bag, my dress sticking to the back of my knees. The driver arrives—different car, a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes. Relief loosens my spine. But as we pull away, I glimpse a dark sedan in the rearview mirror, parked half a block away. I look again, and it’s gone.

The restaurant is upscale, hushed, the kind of place where waiters move like shadows and every glass glows. My name is on the list. The hostess smiles too wide. She leads me past tables of strangers, each glance pinning me in place.

I catch my reflection in a mirror—face pale, mouth set. I square my shoulders, walk like I’m not afraid. But my hands tremble when I accept the glass of wine, when I scan the crowd for anyone familiar.

The table for “featured guests” is already half-full. Men and women in perfect suits, all surface charm. A chair is empty at my left, the seat angled just slightly, as if someone’s expected. The place card says Ms. Hart, handwritten in black ink.

I try to make small talk, but the words slide off me. Every time the door opens, I jump. Every time I catch movement in the corner of my eye, my heart stutters. The lights feel too bright, the music too soft. Even the scent of my wine—jasmine, something floral—makes me feel seen and chosen in a way I don’t want.

At seven-fifteen, a waiter appears and murmurs in my ear:

“There’s a guest who wishes to speak with you privately. This way, Ms. Hart.”

My breath catches. I nod, because what else can I do? I follow him down a dim hallway, past glass walls and low, golden light.

At the end of the corridor, a door stands open. The waiter gestures me inside.

And I step through, the click of my heels too loud in the hush, certain I’m walking into something I can never walk back from.

The private room is small—just one table, set with white linen and gleaming silver, a single flickering candle in the center. The air smells faintly of gardenia. My heart jumps, then pounds so hard I wonder if he can hear it.

He’s already there. Not sitting, but standing at the window, back to me. Black suit, hands clasped behind him, posture casual but predatory. He turns when the door clicks shut. His gaze lands on me like a physical touch—steady, assessing, not a hint of surprise.

The room feels colder. Smaller. I can’t seem to breathe properly.

He smiles—a fraction, just enough to make me wonder if it’s a kindness or a warning. “Ms. Hart,” he says, and his voice is exactly as I remember from the hotel bar: smooth, low, designed for secrets.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I glance back at the waiter, but the door is already closed. No escape now.

He gestures to the chair across from his. “Please. Sit.”

I hesitate, but cross the room anyway, my steps slow, careful. My knees brush the table as I lower myself onto the velvet cushion. I’m hyper-aware of everything: the way his eyes follow every movement, the soft scrape of my chair, the tremor in my hands as I reach for the glass of water set in front of me.

“I hope you don’t mind the invitation,” he says, settling into the chair opposite. “I find these events… tedious. But some company is worth curating.”

There’s a glint of amusement in his eyes, as if he knows how off-balance I am. I force myself to lift my chin, meet his gaze. “You could have just emailed.”

His smile widens, sharp and satisfied. “You ignored my last message.”

My stomach twists. I want to ask how he knows which dress I wore, how he has my number, how any of this is possible. But something in his posture—calm, certain, utterly in control—makes the words wither.

The silence stretches. He studies me as if he’s searching for something beneath my skin. Every instinct tells me to run. But my feet stay planted, my body betraying me with stillness.

“Why am I here?” I finally ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He leans in, elbows on the table, all pretense of civility gone. “Because you’re the most interesting thing in this room, and I don’t like to share.”