Page 124 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
Hope that she'll choose me.
Hope that whatever she's telling her mother right now, whatever truths are being exchanged in that modest apartment, they'll lead her back to me instead of away.
I set down the sketch and close my eyes.
Tomorrow. Everything changes tomorrow.
Either she comes back, or she doesn't. Either we find a way forward, or we don't.
But tonight, all I can do is wait.
And trust.
Chapter 31 - Poppy
My mother's apartment is smaller than I remembered.
Or maybe I'm just seeing it differently now—seeing the truth beneath the surface I've always accepted. The three locks on the door, plus a chain. The way the furniture is arranged to allow quick exits, with clear paths to both the front door and the fire escape. The curtains that are never fully open, always leaving the interior in shadow.
And there, glimpsed through a closet door left slightly ajar, a packed bag. Ready to go at a moment's notice.
Twenty-five years. She's been living like this for twenty-five years. Running from a man who's been dead almost as long as I've been alive.
"Sit down," my mother says, gesturing toward the small sofa. "I'll make tea."
"Mom—"
"Tea first. Then we'll talk."
She disappears into the kitchen, and I hear the familiar sounds of her ritual—kettle filling, cabinet opening, cups being set on saucers. She's stalling. Buying time to compose herself, to decide how much to reveal.
I sit on the sofa and wait, my hands folded in my lap to hide their trembling. I've imagined this conversation a thousand times over the years. Demanded it, sometimes, only to be met with silence or deflection or the same tired lie:Your father was nobody important. A mistake I made when I was young.
Now I know the truth. The question is whether she'll finally admit it.
She returns with two cups of chamomile, handing me one before settling into the armchair across from me. Her hands are shaking too, I notice. Whatever composure she's trying to project, it's not holding.
"You said you wanted to talk about your father." Her voice is carefully neutral. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything." I set down the tea, meeting her eyes. "I know about Dwayne Thomas, Mom. I know who he was, what he did. I know you were running from him."
The color drains from her face. "How did you—"
"It doesn't matter how. What matters is that I know, and I need you to tell me the rest. The truth, this time. All of it."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I watch the walls she's spent decades building start to crumble. Her eyes fill with tears. Her hands shake so badly that she has to set down her cup.
"I never wanted you to know," she whispers. "I spent your whole life trying to protect you from this."
"I know. But I'm not a child anymore, and I need to understand. Please, Mom. Help me understand."
She closes her eyes. Takes a breath. And then, finally, she begins to talk.
"I met Dwayne when I was twenty-two."
Her voice is distant, like she's reading from a script she memorized long ago. "He was a teacher at St. Augustine's—prestigious school, wealthy families, the kind of place where doors open if you have the right connections. I was working at a café near the campus. He came in every afternoon for coffee, and he was... charming. Attentive. Everything a young woman could want."
"You fell in love with him."
