Swipe Right For Murder.

Emily Carter swiped left.

Another blurry bathroom mirror selfie. Another man whose entire personality seemed to revolve around protein shakes and his “grindset.” She sighed, tossing her phone onto the couch beside her. Thirty-two, living in a cramped Manhattan apartment with paint-stained jeans and unfinished canvases stacked against the wall and still playing roulette with her love life on a glowing screen.

She should have deleted the app months ago.

Instead, she scrolled late at night like a moth drawn to the dim light of a flame that always burned her. A flame she still couldn’t resist.

Tonight was no different. She’d already worked twelve hours at her studio, her latest commission a half-finished landscape glaring accusingly from the easel. Wine glass in hand, she told herself she deserved a distraction.

The app pinged. New match.

She almost didn’t check, assuming it would be another “nice smile :)” opener from a stranger who would ghost her after two exchanges. But the name caught her eye.

Alex Thompson.

His photos were striking. Not the usual grainy snapshots, but candid shots that looked like they belonged in glossy magazines. Him standing on a cliffside in Santorini. Him sketching at a café, pencil smudged across long fingers. Him in a tailored suit, expression calm but eyes carrying something depth, mystery.

His bio was simple: Architect. Lover of art, design, and bad coffee. Looking for someone who can debate the meaning of beauty at 2 a.m.

Emily’s heart gave a traitorous thump. She hated how easily words like that got to her. She’d sworn not to fall for curated profiles, not to mistake clever lines for sincerity. But she typed back anyway.

“Define beauty, then.”

His response came within minutes.

“Meeting a stranger in a city of millions and feeling like you already know them.”

She stared at the message, pulse quickening. It was smooth. Too smooth. And yet…

Her phone buzzed again, this time a call. Sarah.

“Tell me you’re not still scrolling that app,” Sarah said the second Emily answered.

“I’m multitasking. Drinking wine and scrolling.”

Sarah groaned. “Em, you’re addicted to digital disappointment. You need real people. Faces, not filtered avatars.”

Emily swirled her wine. “Real people disappoint me, too.”

“Not if you come with me tonight.”

Emily frowned. “It’s already ten.”

“Exactly. Rooftop bar, Midtown. Meet me in twenty. No excuses.”

Emily opened her mouth to protest, but Sarah had already hung up.

~~~

The rooftop bar pulsed with soft jazz and laughter, fairy lights strung overhead like constellations. Emily hugged her jacket tighter, reminding herself this was Sarah’s idea. She wasn’t here to flirt. She wasn’t here for…

Then she saw him.

At the bar, tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair falling perfectly into place. The suit from his profile picture. The faintest smile playing at his lips as if the whole world were in on his secret.

Alex.

Her stomach flipped, betraying every cynical wall she had carefully built.

He turned and his gaze locked on hers instantly. As though he’d been waiting.

“Emily Carter?” His voice was smooth, low, with a confidence that wasn’t arrogant but… disarming.

She blinked. “You you recognized me?”

“I’d know those eyes anywhere.”

The line should have made her roll her own eyes. Instead, it left her unsteady.

Sarah leaned in, smirking. “Well, I see my work here is done.” She mouthed, text me if he’s weird, and melted into the crowd, leaving Emily suddenly exposed under the weight of Alex’s gaze.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

Against her better judgment, she nodded.

~~~

Hours slipped by unnoticed. They talked about art, architecture, New York’s suffocating pace. He told her about designing skyscrapers, about craving spaces that breathed with light and silence. She told him about brushes, about how colors felt like moods trapped on canvas.

He listened. Really listened. No checking his phone. No distracted nods. Just his eyes, sharp and attentive, like she was the only person in the room.

When she mentioned her obsession with true crime documentaries, expecting the usual awkward laugh, he only leaned closer. “That explains why you keep glancing at the exits.”

She blinked, startled. “You noticed that?”

His smile was faint, unreadable. “I notice everything.”

Her cheeks burned. It should have unnerved her. Instead, it left her breathless.

~~~

By the time he walked her home under the glittering Manhattan skyline, her cynicism had cracked wide open.

At her doorstep, Alex hesitated, searching her eyes. “This city makes it easy to feel alone. But tonight, I didn’t.”

Emily’s chest tightened. No one had ever said something like that to her, not and made it sound genuine. She wanted to invite him in. She wanted to stop time.

Instead, she whispered, “Goodnight, Alex.”

He brushed a kiss against her cheek, lingering just enough to make her heart stumble, before stepping back into the shadows of the street.

Emily leaned against her door, dizzy.

Maybe this is different.

~~~

Her phone buzzed as she kicked off her shoes. A news alert lit the screen.

BREAKING: Woman found strangled in Midtown apartment.

Emily frowned, clicking the headline.

The article described a gruesome scene: candles still flickering on the dining table, two half-empty glasses of wine, the faint trace of perfume in the air. The victim, twenty-eight-year-old Lisa Grant, found with a single red rose petal clenched between her fingers.

Emily’s stomach knotted.

The Serial Dater. That’s what the article dubbed him. A man who lured women through apps, only to leave them lifeless in their own homes.

The police had no suspects. No fingerprints. Just the rose petal.

Emily’s wine glass trembled in her hand as she read.

Her dating app pinged again. A new message from Alex.

“Can’t stop thinking about you already. When can I see you again?”

Emily stared at the glowing words, her pulse hammering.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, the article replayed in chilling detail. Candles. Wine. Roses.

The exact kind of evening Alex had promised her next week.

Her phone buzzed again another news alert. This one with a grainy photo of police outside Lisa Grant’s apartment building.

And behind the barricade, just barely visible, a tall man in a dark suit watched from the crowd.

Her breath hitched.

For a moment, she could have sworn it was Alex.​