*The next morning, Lila finds an unmarked envelope slid under her door. Inside: a handwritten note in calligraphy—"Wear red" No signature. No context. Her reaction is a blend of fear, defiance, and thrill. She hides the letter.
Part 3: The Letter with No Name
Last moment:
[Darkness swallowed the room.]
---
The city never slept, but Lila did—eventually.
Badly. Unevenly. Like someone afraid of what might find her in the dark.
She woke with her legs tangled in her sheets, hair matted to her cheek, the echo of Damien's voice wrapped around her like smoke. Her throat was dry, and the air in her apartment was thick with last night's rain. Morning came in shades of silver, the kind of gray that blurred time.
She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and dragged herself toward the door. Habit.
When she opened it, the hallway was empty.
Except for the envelope.
Unmarked. Cream-colored. No stamp. No name. Just sitting there like it had grown out of the wood overnight.
She stared at it for a full thirty seconds, heart stuttering. Her apartment was on the fifth floor, and the door was deadbolted all night. Which meant whoever left this knew the building. Knew her.
Carefully, she bent down, picked it up.
The paper was thick. Expensive. Hand-folded. Her fingers twitched as she turned it over.
Inside: a single card. No heading, no branding. Just one sentence.
"Wear red."
Handwritten. Ink dark and slanted. Almost… elegant.
Lila's breath caught.
No name. No instructions. Just that.
She stared at it like it might catch fire.
It didn't say where. Or when. But somehow, it didn't have to. Because some part of her already knew. This was about Damien Blackwell. About the building. The office. *Him.*
Her first instinct was to burn it. Let it turn to ash in her kitchen sink. It was a game, obviously. A test. Some rich-boy seduction power play. She should spit in its face and walk away.
But she didn't.
Instead, she crossed to her bedroom closet, pulled the box from under the bed—the one where she kept old show pieces, half-finished designs, fabric scraps she couldn't afford but couldn't throw out.
She slid the envelope inside.
Shut the box.
Then stood there, motionless.
Her fingers were still trembling.
The words haunted the inside of her skull: *Wear red.*
She wasn't a girl who got notes like that. She wasn't a girl who *answered* them.
And yet—
The pulse in her throat said otherwise.