Page 37 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
"Have you gone to the police?"
"They wouldn't believe me. He's too—he's untouchable. He has money, connections, a perfect reputation. No one would believe me over him."
Bea's expression hardens. "Who is it?"
"I can't tell you that either."
"Why not?"
"Because if you know, you become a target too. And I won't do that to you."
She stares at me for a long moment, her jaw tight with frustration. I can see her wrestling with it—the urge to push, to demand answers, warring with respect for my boundaries.
Finally, she sighs.
"Okay. I don't like it, but okay." She squeezes my hand. "But you're not doing this alone. Whateverthisis. I'm going to check on you every day. I'm going to bring you food and make sure you're eating. And if things get worse—if you feel like you're in immediate danger—you call me. Day or night. Promise?"
"Bea—"
"Promise me."
The fierceness in her voice reminds me of my mother. That same protective instinct, that same refusal to let me disappear into my own fear.
"I promise," I say.
She nods, satisfied for now, and releases my hand. "Good. Now let's see what we can do about this disaster zone you're living in."
She moves to the paper bag on the counter and starts unpacking—milk, bread, eggs, cheese, a container of soup that looks homemade. Basic supplies, the things I've been too paralyzed to buy for myself.
"You didn't have to do this," I say.
"Yes, I did. You look like you're about to blow away in a strong wind." She opens my refrigerator, grimaces at its emptiness, and starts putting things inside. "When was the last time you ate a real meal?"
"I don't remember."
"That's what I thought. Sit down. I'm making you eggs."
I don't have the energy to argue. I sink into a chair at the kitchen table and watch her move through my space, opening cabinets, finding pans, cracking eggs with practiced efficiency.
The dahlia is still on the table. Bea glances at it as she works.
"Pretty flower," she says. "Where'd that come from?"
My throat tightens. "A client."
"Nice of them. It's holding up well."
"Yeah."
She doesn't push further, and I'm grateful. I don't know what I would say if she asked more questions. I don't know how to explain that I'm keeping a gift from the man who's destroying my life, that I can't bring myself to throw it away, that some sick part of me looks at those dark petals and feels something other than revulsion.
The eggs are ready in minutes—scrambled, slightly overdone, exactly how I like them. Bea sets the plate in front of me and drops into the opposite chair.
"Eat," she commands.
I pick up the fork and force myself to take a bite. The eggs taste like cardboard, but I chew and swallow anyway, because Bea is watching me with that fierce, worried expression, and I can't bear to disappoint her.
We sit in silence for a while. I eat mechanically, bite after bite, while she watches. Halfway through the plate, my phone buzzes.
