Page 11 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
"There was a delay. A broken vase, I believe."
"And then she got lost. Wandered into the east wing. Past the study." Josiah's voice is flat. "Past the study door, which was apparently not fully latched."
I say nothing.
"Did she see anything?"
The question is careful, precise. Josiah already knows the answer—he wouldn't be asking if he didn't. He's giving me a chance to tell him the truth, to loop him into whatever I'm planning.
I could tell him. I probably should tell him. Josiah is my brother, my partner, my closest advisor. We've kept each other's secrets since we were children.
But I don't want to share her. Not yet. Not with anyone.
"She saw a closed door," I say. "She was frightened and lost and looking for the exit. I doubt she noticed anything."
Josiah studies me for a long moment. He doesn't believe me—I can see it in the slight tension around his eyes, the way his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. But he doesn't push. That's not Josiah's way. He files information, waits, watches. When he's ready to act, he acts decisively.
"The cleanup is complete," he says finally. "Woolworth's gone. No traces."
"Good."
"I'll handle the family. The letter explaining his departure."
"Thank you."
Another pause. Josiah moves toward the door, then stops.
"Be careful, Gabriel. Whatever this is... be careful."
He leaves before I can respond. Not that I would have responded. There's nothing to say.
I turn back to the window, watching the morning light spread across the grounds. Somewhere across the city, she's waking up. Or not waking up—she probably never slept, same as me. She's finding the dahlia I left. Picking it up with trembling hands. Wondering what it means.
It means I'm coming for you,I think.Not today. Not yet. But soon.
It means you belong to me now. You just don't know it yet.
I allow myself a small smile. The first genuine smile I've felt in longer than I can remember.
The hunt has begun.
Chapter 3 - Poppy
The light changes so gradually that I almost miss the moment night becomes morning. One minute the windows are black mirrors reflecting my own haunted face, and the next they're filled with gray—that colorless pre-dawn gray that makes everything look like a photograph drained of life.
I'm still on the couch. I've been here for hours, knees pulled to my chest, eyes fixed on the door. Waiting for something. A knock. A key in the lock. The sound of footsteps that don't belong.
Nothing came.
Part of me expected him to follow. To finish what he started—or what I interrupted. Every creak of the old building made my heart seize. Every car that passed on the street below sent me spiraling into fresh terror.
But the night passed in silence, and now it's morning, and I'm still alive, and I don't know what that means.
My body aches from sitting in the same position for so long. My eyes burn. My mouth tastes sour and stale. I should shower. Eat something. Pretend to be a person who had a normal night, who slept in her bed, who didn't witness a murder twelve hours ago.
Instead, I get up and walk to the door.
I'm not sure why. To check the lock again—I've checked it a hundred times. To look through the peephole at the empty hallway. Or maybe just because I can't sit still anymore, can't keep waiting for something that may or may not come.
