Page 33 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
"She's not a project. And you're not going anywhere near her."
The words come out harder than I intended, edged with something that sounds almost like possessiveness. Benedict's eyebrows rise.
"Well, well," he murmurs. "It's worse than I thought."
"There's nothingwrongwith the situation. I have it under control."
"Do you?" He settles back in his chair, swirling his whiskey again. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're spinning webs around a woman who might not be worth the silk. She's nobody, Gabriel. A florist. A witness who hasn't gone to the police and probably never will. Why not just... let her go?"
Let her go.
The suggestion is so absurd that I almost laugh. Let her go, as if she's a fish I could throw back into the water. As if I could simply stop thinking about her, stop wanting her, stop feeling the pull of her presence like gravity.
She drew a serpent whispering to a flower before she ever knew my name. She looked at me through that doorway and didn't scream. She kept the dahlia I left on her doorstep, put it in water, tended it like something precious.
She's not nobody.
She'severything.
"The situation is under control," I repeat. "That's all you need to know."
Benedict studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shrugs and drains his whiskey.
"If you say so, brother. But a word of advice from someone who's watched you operate for thirty years: you're not as subtle as you think you are. Josiah sees it. I see it. Eventually, the Brotherhood will see it too." He stands, setting his empty glass on my desk. "And when they do, they'll want to know why their leader is spending more time stalking a florist than attending to business."
He leaves without waiting for a response, the door clicking shut behind him.
I sit in the silence he's left behind, turning his words over in my mind.
He's not wrong. I've been distracted—missing meetings, delegating responsibilities, letting Brotherhood matters slide while I obsess over surveillance reports and phone calls. It's not sustainable. It's not safe.
But I can't stop.
She's in my head, burrowed deep like a splinter I can't extract. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face—that moment in the doorway, terror and recognition tangled together. Every time I'm alone, I hear her voice on the phone, that broken whisper asking what I want.
I think you know what I want.
I do want her. More than I've wanted anything in years. But it's more than desire—it's need. A compulsion. An ache that won't be satisfied until she's mine completely.
Until she stops running and starts choosing.
My phone buzzes. A text from Josiah:Brotherhood meeting at 3. Henderson matter. Your presence required.
I check my watch. Two hours. Enough time to review the Henderson situation and prepare for whatever tedious negotiations await.
The Henderson matter is exactly the kind of Brotherhood business I should be focusing on. Arthur Henderson is an outer ring member who's been making noise about wanting more influence, more access, more power than his position warrants. He needs to be reminded of his place—firmly but diplomatically, in a way that doesn't create unnecessary enemies.
A month ago, this would have consumed my attention. I would have spent days preparing, analyzing Henderson's weaknesses, planning exactly how to neutralize him.
Now I can barely make myself care.
I pull up the Henderson file on my laptop, forcing myself to focus. His financial records, his family connections, his known associates. The leverage we have on him—a mistress, some questionable investments, a son with a drug problem that's been quietly managed. Standard material. Standard approach.
I read through it mechanically, making notes, formulating a strategy. But my mind keeps drifting back to her. To the barricade against her door. To the dahlia she's keeping alive on her kitchen table.
To what comes next.
The Patterson client was just the beginning. One lost job won't break her—she'll be upset, worried, but she'll survive. She'll tell herself it was a coincidence, bad luck, the natural volatility of a small business.
