Page 8 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
But he let me go.
Which means either he's not worried about what I saw... or he wanted me to see it.
The second option is insane. Why would anyone want a witness to murder?
But I can't stop thinking about the way he looked at me. Not with panic. Not with a threat. Withcuriosity. Like I was unexpected. Like I was interesting.
Like I was something he wanted to examine more closely.
I sit in the dark for hours. Every creak of the building makes me flinch. Every car that passes on the street below sends my heart racing.
I don't call the police.
I tell myself it's because I'm being smart. Strategic. I need to think this through, figure out my options, not act rashly.
But underneath that rational explanation, there's something else. Something I don't want to look at directly.
The way I didn't scream.
The way I stood there, frozen, watching him watch me.
The way his expression—that peace, that satisfaction—felt familiar somehow. Like I was looking at something I recognized but couldn't name.
Like some part of me understood.
I curl up on the couch, pulling a blanket over myself even though I'm not cold. I stare at the ceiling, at the water stain shaped vaguely like a bird, and I wait for morning.
Sleep doesn't come.
Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. The blood on his hands. The way he tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve.
What are you?I asked him silently, in that frozen moment before I ran.
But maybe the real question is different.
What am I, that I didn't look away?
Chapter 2 - Gabriel
Sleep doesn't come.
I don't expect it to. The hours after a kill are always like this—my mind too sharp, my senses too alert, my body humming with energy that has nowhere to go. Usually, I spend these hours in my study, reading or working, or simply sitting in the dark, letting the silence settle over me like a burial shroud.
Tonight, the silence won't come.
I'm in my bedroom at the estate, the curtains open to the gray light of approaching dawn. The gala ended hours ago. The guests have departed, their masks tucked away until next year, their secrets safe behind polite smiles and generous donations. The staff are cleaning the ballroom, erasing all evidence of the evening's excesses. In a room at the end of the east wing, other staff are cleaning too. Woolworth's body is already gone—transported to a facility the Brotherhood maintains for such purposes. By tomorrow, there will be no trace of him. No blood on the antique rug, no scuff marks on the hardwood floor, no lingering smell of copper and fear.
Jack Woolworth will simply cease to exist. His family will receive a letter explaining that he's left the country to pursue business opportunities abroad. His accounts will be quietly closed, his assets absorbed, his life erased with the efficiency of long practice.
It's clean. Professional. Exactly as it should be.
And I feel nothing about any of it.
Woolworth deserved what he got. He'd been skimming from Brotherhood accounts for two years, funneling money into a private investment that went sour. When he couldn'tcover his losses, he started talking to people he shouldn't—not law enforcement, nothing so crude, but competitors. Business rivals who would pay well for information about our operations. Josiah discovered it three months ago. We watched, waited, gathered evidence. Tonight was simply the conclusion of a process that began long before Woolworth walked into the study expecting a negotiation.
He begged at the end. They always do. He offered money he didn't have, information he'd already sold, loyalty he'd already betrayed. I listened to all of it, patient and calm, and then I did what needed to be done. The kill was satisfying. His fear was satisfying. The way the life drained out of his eyes, that final moment when he understood there would be no reprieve—that was satisfying too.
But it's not what I'm thinking about.
