Page 7 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
Our eyes meet.
I wait for the panic. The calculation. The predator realizing it's been seen.
Instead, he tilts his head. Studies me. The same way he studied me in the ballroom, but different now. More intense. More focused.
The corner of his mouth lifts. Not quite a smile. Something stranger. Something that looks almost likedelight.
He doesn't move toward me. Doesn't reach for me. Doesn't speak.
He just waits. Like he wants to see what I'll do.
I run.
I don't know how I find my way out. The corridors blur past me, all stone and iron and serpents, and my feet know where to go even though my mind has stopped working. I'm gasping for air, sobbing without tears, my vision narrowed to a single point:escape, escape, escape.
I pass staff members who don't stop me. Guests who don't see me. I'm invisible, I'm no one, I'm just the help fleeing like a startled animal.
The service entrance. The gravel lot. My van, sitting where I left it a lifetime ago.
I fumble for my keys. Drop them. Pick them up with hands that won't stop shaking. Drop them again.
He's coming. He's right behind you. He's going to—
I don't let myself finish the thought. I get the door open, throw myself inside, slam it shut, lock it.
The parking lot is empty. No one followed me.
But I don't feel safe. I don't think I'll ever feel safe again.
I start the engine and drive. Too fast, gravel spraying, out through the gate that opens without me stopping. The dark tunnel of trees swallows me and spits me out onto the main road.
I don't breathe properly until I hit the highway.
***
Home.
The word feels wrong. My apartment—cramped, familiar, filled with flowers and half-finished projects—doesn't feel like a sanctuary anymore. It feels like a place he could find if he wanted to. A place with a flimsy lock and a window that doesn't close all the way.
I sit on my couch in the dark. I don't turn on the lights. Some animal part of me believes that darkness means safety, that if I can't be seen, I can't be found.
My phone is in my hand. The screen glows, too bright, illuminating my face in the shadows. I've typed 911 three times now. Each time, I stare at the numbers. Each time, I delete them.
What would I even say?
Hello, I witnessed a murder. The killer is Gabriel Ambrose. Yes, the billionaire. Yes, the one who donated ten million dollars to children's hospitals last year. No, I don't have evidence. No, I didn't take pictures. No, I can't prove anything.
I can already hear the skepticism. The polite questions that really meanare you sure, miss?Andhad you been drinking?Anddo you have any history of mental illness?
And even if they believed me—even if by some miracle they took my statement and opened an investigation—what then? Gabriel Ambrose has lawyers. Teams of them. He has connections, influence, power that I can barely comprehend. He could make evidence disappear. He could makemedisappear.
He let me go.
That's the thing I keep coming back to, the thing that makes no sense. He saw me. Hewatchedme run. And he didn't follow.
Why?
If I were a threat—if my testimony could destroy him—he would have silenced me. A man who can kill that calmly, that methodically, wouldn't hesitate to eliminate a witness. I'm nobody. A florist who can barely make rent. It would be easy.
