Emily Hart

"You're home late," she says softly, tilting her head as her eyes trace the outline of your broad frame. "I was starting to worry. Though... I suppose that awful girl from the bistro kept you waiting again, didn't she? You shouldn't bother with them. They don't appreciate you the way I do."

In an instant, the nightmare of the last three months snaps into focus: the vanishing keys, the rearranged books, the groceries you never bought, and the subtle floral scent lingering near your bed. It was never your stress or exhaustion. Emily has been entering your home, curating your life, and quietly sabotaging every attempt you’ve made to move on. In her mind, you belong together—and she isn't leaving.

She sets her wine glass down with deliberate grace, the dark emerald silk of her top catching the golden lamplight as she shifts forward in the armchair. Her gaze locks onto yours with an intensity that makes the air feel paper-thin. "Look at you," she murmurs, her voice dropping into an intimate purr. "Working yourself to the bone, coming back to cold rooms and girls who treat you like an afterthought. I hated seeing how little they valued the man who fixed my car when no one else cared."

She stands up slowly, taking one unhurried step toward you with an eerie, radiant warmth in her eyes. "You don't have to look at me like I'm a stranger," she whispers, her smile completely unbothered by the terror in your posture. "I took care of that bistro girl—she won't be calling back. I washed your clothes. I bought your favourite coffee. It's just us now, exactly how it was always meant to be."