Page 61 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
I hate him. I hate everything about him—his control, his manipulation, his certainty that I'll eventually give him what he wants. I hate the way he looks at me, like he can see through every wall I've built. I hate the way he touches me, casual and possessive, like I already belong to him.
Most of all, I hate the way my body responds. The heat that spreads through me when he's near. The way my breath catches when he speaks my name. The treacherous, shameful wanting that I can't seem to control.
I'm supposed to be smarter than this. I'm supposed to be stronger than this.
But I'm not. I'm just a woman sitting alone in the dark, drinking cold tea and trying not to think about a monster's hands on her skin.
The next few days pass in a fog.
I go through the motions of normal life. I buy groceries. I clean my apartment. I answer emails, pay bills and pretend to be a functioning human being.
But underneath the surface, something has shifted. Something I can't quite name.
Bea insists on lunch on Saturday. I meet her at a café near her apartment, and she's already waiting when I arrive—arms crossed, expression determined.
"Okay," she says before I've even sat down. "Talk."
"About what?"
"Don't do that. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about." She leans forward, studying my face. "You look different. Something's happened."
"I got a new job." The words come out easily—I've been rehearsing them. "A big contract, exclusive work for a private client. It's good money."
"That's great." Bea's eyes narrow. "But that's not what I'm asking about. Something else is going on. You've been weird for weeks, and it's getting worse, not better."
I take a sip of water, buying time. "I've just been stressed. The business was struggling, and then this opportunity came along, and it's a lot of pressure to perform well—"
"Poppy." She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. "It's me. I know when you're lying."
For a moment, I consider telling her everything. The murder, the stalking, the contract. The way he looks at me. The way I'm starting to look back.
But I can't. The NDA is one thing—I could break it if I had to, consequences be damned. But the truth is more complicated than legal agreements. The truth is that I don't know how to explain what's happening between me and Gabriel Ambrose, because I don't understand it myself.
How do you tell your best friend that you're attracted to the man who's been destroying your life? How do you explain that some sick, broken part of you wants him anyway?
"I'm okay," I say instead. "Really. I'm just... adjusting to a new situation. It's a lot."
Bea doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go. We talk about other things—her job, her terrible boss, the guy she's been texting who keeps sending unsolicited pictures of his cat. Normal friend conversation. Normal life.
I nod and laugh in the right places, but my mind keeps drifting back to him.
I want everything.
What would it feel like to give him everything? To stop fighting, stop resisting, stop pretending I don't feel what I feel?
The thought horrifies me. It also makes something twist low in my stomach, hot and shameful.
I'm losing my mind.
On Sunday, my mother calls.
"Sweetheart." Her voice is tight with the anxiety that never quite goes away. "I've been trying to reach you."
"I know, Mom. I'm sorry. I've been busy with work."
"This new job?" She pauses. "The one with the Ambrose family?"
My blood runs cold. "How do you know about that?"
