The roses stopped.
For a full week, Iva's desk remained empty of the yellow flowers that had become an unsettling morning ritual. She told herself she was relieved. That the mystery sender had grown bored, moved on, found someone else to torment.
But the relief was short-lived.
The messages began on a Tuesday.
Iva found the first one tucked beneath her pillow—a small, cream-colored envelope sealed with wax. No return address. No identifying marks. Just her name, written in elegant, looping script.
Her hands trembled as she opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded neatly. The words were written in the same elegant hand:
*"Your beauty rivals the moon itself. I have watched you from the shadows, and I am captivated."*
Iva's stomach turned.
She read the words again, a chi
