Page 53 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
It's huge—thicker than my arm, longer than I can see. It winds through the flowers without crushing them, its bodyflowing like water over stone. Its eyes are fixed on me, dark and knowing.
I should run. I should scream. But I don't.
I kneel among the black flowers and wait for it to reach me.
It coils around my legs, my waist, my chest. Not squeezing—just holding. Its scales are cool and smooth against my skin. Its head rises to meet my gaze, and when it speaks, its voice is his voice.
You're not afraid.
No,I say.
Why not?
I don't have an answer.
I wake with my heart pounding and the sheets twisted around my legs like coils.
Sunday is worse.
The contract is still on my table. The dahlia is still in its glass of water, petals dark and perfect. My phone is still silent except for one text from my mother—Call me when you can, sweetheart—that I haven't answered yet.
I should call her. I should tell her something, even if it's not the whole truth. But every time I pick up the phone, I hear her voice in my head:Stay away from those kinds of people. They're dangerous.
She was right. She's always been right.
And I'm about to walk straight into the dragon's den anyway.
I think about her warnings, the fear that's always lived beneath her skin. She's been running from something my whole life—I've always known that, even if I didn't have words for it. The way she startled at unexpected noises. The way she checked the locks three times before bed. The way she kept a bag packed in the back of her closet, as if we might need to leave in the middle of the night.
I used to think it was anxiety. Mental illness, maybe, passed down through generations of women who worried too much. Now I'm not so sure. Now I wonder if she knew something—about powerful men, about serpents that coil around your life until there's no escape.
If anyone seems interested in you, you'll tell me, won't you?
Someone is interested in me, Mom. Very interested. And I can't tell you, because telling you would only put you in danger, too.
Around noon on Sunday, I give up pretending to function and sit down at the table with the contract in front of me. I've read it a dozen times. I know every clause, every provision, every carefully worded trap.
It doesn't matter. None of it matters.
I don't have a choice.
My rent is due in two weeks. My savings account has $847 in it. My last three clients have canceled, and I haven't had a new inquiry in over a week. Even if I started rebuilding today, even if I somehow managed to book enough work to stay afloat, it would take months to recover.
Months I don't have.
The contract offers me a retainer of five thousand dollars a month, plus additional compensation for each event. Triple my usual rates, just like he promised. It's more money than I've ever made, more than I ever dreamed of making.
All I have to do is sell my soul.
I pick up my pen. Set it down. Pick it up again.
What does he really want from me?
The question has been circling in my head for days, a vulture waiting for something to die. He says he wants my work, my talent, my artistic vision. But that's not it. That's not why he's done all of this—the stalking, the surveillance, the systematic destruction of my livelihood.
He wants something else. Something he hasn't named yet.
I don't like to share.
