Page 116 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
He was right. Zach found her, cultivated her, turned her into exactly that weapon.
But I can't make myself care about any of it. The Brotherhood, the business, the empire I've built—none of it matters without her.
When did that happen? When did she become more important than everything else?
I pull the sketch from my pocket—her serpent and dahlia, worn soft from constant handling. The paper is creased now, the edges frayed, but the image is still clear. Still beautiful.
She drew this before she knew me. Before she had any reason to see the connection between us.
The serpent and the flower, intertwined. Predator and prey, but also something else. Something that might have been beautiful, if I hadn't destroyed it.
I trace the lines with my finger, remembering the first time I saw it. The night I broke into her apartment, while she slept in the next room. I stood in her workroom and found this image in her sketchbook, and something shifted inside me.
She saw me before she knew me. She drew us before we'd ever met.
And now she's locked in a room upstairs, trying to decide if she can ever look at me again.
I stare at the sketch until my vision blurs, whiskey warming my throat, grief and rage and regret churning in my chest.
She asked for space. She asked for time to think.
I'll give her that. I'll give her whatever she needs, for as long as she needs it.
But I won't let her go. I can't.
She's mine—the first person who's ever truly seen me, the first person I've ever truly wanted. She's carrying knowledge that could destroy me, secrets that could tear down everything I've built.
And I don't care. I don't care about any of it.
I just want her back.
Tomorrow, I'll find a way to fix this. Tomorrow, I'll make her understand that what happened with Dwayne doesn't change what we have. That the violence in my past doesn't have to define our future.
But tonight, I sit in the dark and drink and mourn the thing I've broken.
The thing I may never be able to repair.
Outside the window, the moon rises over the garden, casting silver light across the roses where she sat just hours ago. The bench is empty now. The flowers are silent.
And somewhere in the house above me, the woman who holds my fate in her hands is deciding whether to stay or run.
I pour another whiskey and wait for dawn.
Chapter 29 - Poppy
The lock on the guest room door is flimsy—decorative more than functional, the kind of hardware you install when you never expect anyone to actually use it. Gabriel could break through it with one solid kick. He could have the staff bring him a key. He could find a dozen ways to reach me if he wanted to.
But he doesn't.
I hear him in the hallway around midnight, his footsteps pausing outside my door. He stands there for what feels like an eternity—I can see the shadow of his feet in the gap beneath the door, can feel the weight of his presence pressing against the thin barrier between us.
He doesn't knock. Doesn't speak. Doesn't try to force his way in.
Eventually, the shadow moves away. His footsteps retreat down the corridor, and I'm alone again.
I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel hollow.
I lie in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling I've never really looked at before. The guest room is beautiful—of course it is, everything in this house is beautiful—but it feels sterile. Unlived in. A space designed for strangers, not for the woman who's been sharing the master's bed.
