Page 11 of The Bratva Stalker's Ruthless Claim
7:32 p.m.
I really should go home.
I still live in the apartment I used to share with my best friend, Raelyn. She moved out years back after marrying a Bratva boss, something that still sounds surreal when I say it out loud.
Funny how unpredictable life is.
One day, you’re sharing grocery lists and complaining about laundry. The next day, she’s living in a mansion surrounded by armed security and men who look like they could snap someone’s spine in half.
Meanwhile, I’m still here.
Same apartment.
Same routine.
Same quiet life.
My place is also far from campus, which means the earlier I leave, the better.
Besides…lately, I’ve had this strange feeling.
Like I’m being watched.
It’s probably paranoia.
Who would watch me?
I’m not that interesting.
Seriously.
Everyone reminds me of that about a hundred times a day.
Boring Ellie.
Predictable Ellie.
Pathologically organized Ellie.
Not exactly the profile of someone worth stalking.
I shut down my computer, grab my bag, and switch off the desk lamp.
By the time I step outside the building, dusk has already settled across campus.
The air is cool, and the sky is fading into that deep blue that comes right before full night.
Most of the campus parking lot is empty.
A few scattered cars.
A couple of distant headlights pulling away near the exit.
My footsteps echo softly on the pavement as I walk toward my car.
I’m halfway across the lot when something catches my attention.
Two rows over, a black sedan is idling. Engine running. Headlights off.
