Page 86 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
That's the part that scares me.
On the sixth morning, I wake to find Gabriel already gone. His side of the bed is cold, the sheets rumpled but empty. There's a note on the pillow—actual paper, handwritten, which seems absurdly old-fashioned for a man who runs a business empire.
Meeting in the city. Back by dinner. Don't leave the grounds without James.
James is the driver. The one who brought me here that first night, and every night since. Gabriel's way of keeping me close, even when he can't watch me himself.
I crumple the note and toss it aside, irritation flaring in my chest. Don't leave without James. As if I need permission. As if I'm a child who can't be trusted to cross the street alone.
But underneath the irritation is something else. The memory of Gabriel's face when he told me someone was asking questions. The tension in his voice, carefully controlled but unmistakable. Whatever he's protecting me from, it's real enough to worry him.
And Gabriel Ambrose doesn't worry easily.
I swing my legs out of bed, and a wave of dizziness hits me—sudden and disorienting, the room tilting sideways before righting itself. I grip the edge of the mattress, waiting for it to pass.
Probably just stood up too fast. I haven't been eating well—the stress, the upheaval, the constant state of alertness that comes with living in a murderer's bed. My body is protesting in the only way it knows how.
The dizziness fades, and I push myself to my feet. Shower. Dress. Pretend to be a person who has her life under control.
The bathroom mirror shows me a woman I barely recognize. Pale skin, shadowed eyes, lips still slightly swollen from last night. I look tired. More than tired—I look worn, like a photograph that's been handled too many times.
I splash water on my face and reach for my toothbrush. The moment the mint toothpaste hits my tongue, my stomach lurches violently.
I barely make it to the toilet in time.
When it's over, I kneel on the cold marble floor, breathing hard, trying to understand what just happened. I'm not sick—I don't feel feverish, don't have any of the usual symptoms of illness. Just this sudden, violent revolt of my stomach, triggered by nothing more than toothpaste.
Probably stress, I tell myself.Or something I ate last night. Or the general chaos of my life finally manifesting physically.
I don't let myself think about other possibilities. Not yet.
I rinse my mouth, brush my teeth more carefully this time, and finish getting ready. The clothes in the closet are my size, my style—nothing I remember packing. Another reminder that Gabriel has been watching me longer than I knew. Learning me. Preparing for my arrival before I'd even decided to come.
The thought should disgust me. Instead, it sends a familiar heat through my belly, quickly followed by another wave of nausea that I force myself to swallow down.
What is wrong with me?
I push the question aside and head downstairs, determined to do something normal. Something that doesn't involve locked doors and serpent imagery and a man whose touch makes me forget my own name.
I find James in the kitchen, drinking coffee with the housekeeper. They fall silent when I enter, their conversation dying mid-sentence.
"I need to go out," I say. "To the flower market. I'm sourcing supplies for the Harrison event next week."
The Harrison event is real—a dinner party Gabriel mentioned, another excuse to parade me through his world as his florist while I'm actually something else entirely. But I don't care about the Harrisons. I just need to get out of this house before the walls close in completely.
James sets down his cup. "Of course, miss. I'll bring the car around."
"Thank you."
The housekeeper—Mrs. Bloom, I've learned—gestures toward the counter. "Can I get you anything before you go? Breakfast? Coffee?"
The mention of coffee makes my stomach turn again. "No, thank you. I'm not hungry."
She frowns slightly, the first crack I've seen in her professional mask. "You should eat something, miss. You've been looking pale lately."
"I'm fine," I say, more sharply than I intended. "Just tired."
She nods and returns to her work, but I can feel her eyes on me as I walk to the door. Watching. Noticing things.
