Page 41 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
"Exclusivity?"
"I don't like to share." I let the words hang for a moment, heavy with meaning. "My florist, my caterer, my staff—I prefer dedicated relationships. Loyalty, Ms. Rivers. It's something I value highly."
Another long pause. When she speaks again, her voice is tighter, the professional facade cracking slightly.
"That's a significant commitment."
"It is. Which is why I'd like to discuss it in person." I glance at my calendar, though I already know my schedule by heart. "Are you available tomorrow? I could have my assistant arrange lunch. There's a restaurant I favor—quiet, private. We could talk through the details without interruption."
I hear her sharp intake of breath. She wasn't expecting this. She thought she could handle it over the phone, keep her distance, maintain some illusion of control.
But I want to see her face. I want to watch her try to maintain that fragile composure while sitting across from me, close enough to touch. I want to smell her shampoo, count her breaths, and see the fear flickering in her eyes.
"Tomorrow," she repeats slowly.
"If that works for you. If not, I'm flexible. But I'd prefer sooner rather than later—I have an event coming up, and I'd like to know whether I can count on your services."
The pressure is deliberate. Gentle, but unmistakable.Decide now. Commit now. Step into my world now.
"Tomorrow is fine," she says finally. "What time?"
"Noon. I'll text you the address." I pause, letting my voice soften. "I'm looking forward to it, Ms. Rivers. Truly."
"I'll see you then, Mr. Ambrose."
She hangs up before I can respond.
I set the phone down on my desk and stare at it for a long moment, processing what just happened.
She called me. She's coming to meet me. Tomorrow, she'll sit across from me at a table, and we'll discuss arrangements—floral arrangements, professional arrangements, the terms of her surrender.
It's everything I wanted.
So why does it feel incomplete?
I stand and move to the window, looking out over the city spread below me. From this height, the people on the streets are insects, their lives small and insignificant, their concernsbeneath my notice. I've always liked this view. It reminds me of what I am, where I stand, the distance between me and ordinary humanity.
But lately, one ordinary life has consumed my attention. One woman, with her dark hair and her trembling hands and her sketches of serpents whispering to flowers.
She's coming to me. Willingly—or as willingly as someone with no other options can be.
That should be enough. That should satisfy the hunger that's been gnawing at me since the moment she appeared in that doorway.
But it isn't.
I don't just want her presence. I don't just want her professional services, her time, her proximity.
I want her tochooseme.
Not because I've left her no alternatives. Not because I've systematically destroyed every other option until I'm the only lifeline remaining. I want her to look at me—really look, seeing exactly what I am—and decide that she wants me anyway.
The way she looked at me through that doorway. That flash of recognition before the fear took over.
She saw the monster. And for one moment, she didn't look away.
I want that moment back. I want to live inside it, extend it, make it permanent. I want her to see me and stay. To understand me and choose me. To accept the serpent into her garden and let it coil around her roots.
Is that possible? Can prey ever truly choose the predator?
