Page 36 of Perfect Stalker

I take a sip of tea, buying myself a moment. “It’s...draining,” I say finally. “Ivan—Mr. Markov—he’s a demanding boss, but I’m learning a lot.”

Dad leans forward, frowning. “You’re being careful, right? I don’t want you overworking yourself for a bunch of assh...”

“I’m fine, Dad,” I cut in, forcing a smile. “Ivan takes good care of his employees, and he’s giving me a lot more responsibility sincehe fired all the a-holes.” I wink at him, which makes my father grin.

Mom’s gaze is sharp, seeing more than I’d like. “And how is Ivan? You’ve mentioned him quite a bit over dinner.”

Heat rise to my cheeks. “He’s...complicated. Brilliant, driven. Kind sometimes, but there’s a lot I don’t know about him.”

She nods thoughtfully. “Men like that often have their reasons for being the way they are. Have you learned anything about his background?”

I hesitate, then decide to share a bit of what I know. “He grew up in orphanages,” I say softly. “Bounced around a lot as a kid.”

Mom’s expression softens. “Oh, that poor man. No wonder he’s so...complex.”

I nod, surprised by the sudden lump in my throat. “Yeah. I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”

We lapse into silence for a moment, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner suddenly loud. Then Mom stands. “Let’s look through some of our old albums. It’ll do you good to remember where you came from.”

I don’t bother protesting. Mom loves to view the shelves of albums she’s acquired, telling stories about the people she knew as a little girl and reminding me about past family memories. I can count on this happening at least a few times per year.

We settle on the couch with a heavy leather-bound album open between us. Page after page of memories—my first steps, family vacations, school plays, Mom’s parents, Dad’s father with a medal from the Korean War, and a few aunts and cousins, someof whom I’ve never met. Each photo is a reminder of the love and stability I’ve always known.

“You know,” she says softly, “Sometimes people who’ve never had this,” She gestures to the photos, and I understand she means the memories more than the photos, “Build walls around themselves. They’re cold because they need warmth, but they don’t know how to ask for it.”

I stare at a photo of myself as a toddler, beaming at the camera in my father’s arms. “I never thought about it like that.”

She squeezes my hand. “Maybe what Ivan needs is someone to show him what family really means. To give him some of the warmth he’s been missing.”

Her words strike a chord deep within me. I think of Ivan, alone in that massive penthouse, surrounded by wealth but lacking the simple joys captured in these photos. As I flip through more pages, a plan begins to form in my mind. Ivan doesn’t have a family history to look back on, but I resolve to do something meaningful for him—to find out more about his past, yes, but also to help him build a future filled with the kind of warmth these photos represent.

When I finally say goodbye to my parents, the locket around my neck feels different. It’s still a reminder of the complex world I’ve entered, but now, it also feels like a challenge to bring some light into Ivan’s darkness.

My idea is provinghard to make happen. A couple of days later, I pace in the penthouse’s living room while Ivan is out. I’vesearched everywhere I could easily access to find memories, but the only thing I’ve found is that box. It meant enough to him to bring it down to the twentieth-floor apartment when he was watching me, and he now keeps it in his closet in his room. I assume if he had any other mementos, they’d be in that box, so I’m coming up empty.

The locket Ivan gave me rests against my skin, a constant reminder of his watchful presence. I trace the intricate filigree work while I contemplate my next move.

The idea of digging into Ivan’s past both thrills and terrifies me. On one hand, I long to understand the man who has become such a dominant force in my life. On the other, I’m acutely aware of the dangers that come with prying into the affairs of aBratvaleader.

I’ve spent the past two days waging an internal debate but finally make a decision. I’ll need help, and there’s only one person I trust enough to approach. I find Marcus in Ivan’s study, checking to make sure Ivan isn’t there when I peek in.

“He had a meeting,” he tells me without looking up. He’s clearly engrossed in something on his tablet, his broad shoulders hunched over it.

“Good. I want to talk to you, not him.”

Marcus looks up at that, his dark eyes assessing me with the sharpness of a trained operative. There’s blatant suspicion there, like he thinks I’m here to seduce him, or perhaps ask him to help me escape Ivan.

I swallow hard, bracing myself for what I’m about to do and not quell under his fierce glare. I sound more composed than I feel. “I need your help with something.”

He leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “What kind of help? If this is to convince me to let you escape, you’re safer with Ivan.”

“I know.” I resist the urge to stick out my tongue in a childish fashion at his shock when I acknowledge that. “I want to look into Ivan’s past. Specifically, his time in the orphanages. I know it’s not easy information to get, but I thought maybe you might have some contacts...” I trail off, watching his face for any reaction. For a long moment, he’s silent, his gaze boring into me. I resist the urge to fidget under his scrutiny.

Finally, he speaks. “Why?”

It’s a simple but loaded question. I choose my words carefully. “Because I care about him, and I think understanding where he came from might help me understand who he is now.”

He narrows his eyes. “This isn’t just curiosity, is it? You’re looking for something specific.”

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