Page 9 of Perfect Stalker

“Just try to sleep,” I whisper to the empty air, knowing she can’t hear me. “You’re safe now.”

I lower my binoculars and touch my forehead to the cold window while staring across the gap between our buildings—twenty stories up, and two hundred yards apart. Close enough to watch, but too far to fully protect if something happens. The lights of downtown Atlanta twinkle below, but my attention remains fixed on her window.

“Done for tonight, man?” asks Marcus through the intercom.

“No. Double the security detail outside her building. I want four men, not two.” There’s no clear reason for requesting that, but my instincts tell me to, so I do.

“Of course.”

I press my hand against the glass, watching Jenny open “Netflix” on the feed. If she knew the truth, would she understand? Or would it only frighten her more?

Turning away from the window, I move to the liquor cabinet. My hands shake slightly when I reach for the crystal decanter, the stopper making a quiet clink as I remove it. The vodka splashes into my tumbler—one, two, three fingers’ worth. Premium Russian vodka, the kind I assume my father would have approved of, if I’d ever known him.

Once again, my gaze turns to the cameras. I watch her as she watches something on her laptop. It sounds like a comedy, but she never even smiles. She’s upset, and I feel like a heel for causing that with my flirtatious, ill-timed text. All I can do is watch her get through it.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” I mutter in Russian, pressing the cool glass to my forehead. I already know the answer. This nightly vigil is both my penance and my privilege—watching over her and protecting her, even if she’ll never know.

Needing a reminder of what I do for her, and some hope that there’s a connection between us even if it’s all on my side, I call up videos from the surveillance system at “Silver Fox Productions,” dated over the past year. My tablet displays dozens of video clips, a digital archive of Jenny’s mistreatment.

In one, her former supervisor throws a stack of papers at her desk, scattering them across the floor while other employees snicker. Jenny calmly picks up each sheet, her face a mask of composure.

I take a long drink, savoring the burn. The next clip shows the break room. Two women whisper and point at Jenny as she heats her lunch. When she sits alone at a corner table, they walk past and deliberately knock her water bottle to the floor.

“Oops,” says one with exaggerated innocence. “So clumsy.”

Jenny retrieves the bottle without a word, though her hands shake slightly as she wipes up the spill.

I twist the glass until my fingers ache, vodka sloshing against the crystal sides. These office vultures strutted through their cubicle kingdom, drunk on the minor power their mid-level management positions provide. Their daddy’s country club memberships and sorority connections shielded them from consequences. Or so they’d believed.

“Did you see her face?” The whispered taunt drifts from the break room via my tablet. “Like a lost little puppy.”

I’ve memorized each face, each sneer, and each calculated “accident.” They had no idea that every incident was being cataloged, and every perpetrator identified. No idea that someone like me—someone who understands real power—was watching their pathetic display of dominance.

“Such amateurs,” I murmur, taking another sip. “You dug your graves one shovel at a time.”

Another video plays—the CEO’s assistant spreading rumors about Jenny sleeping her way into promotions. The whispersfollow her through hallways, stick to her like poison. Yet she holds her head high, performs her duties with professionalism, and honestly seems unaware of the content of the rumors.

I scroll through more footage—stolen credit for her work, sabotaged presentations, and deliberately incorrect information that set her up to fail. The systematic campaign to break her spirit fills me with cold rage.

That’s why I bought the company. Not just to be closer to her, but to destroy those who hurt her. One by one, they’ve learned the cost of their actions. The severance packages are merely a courtesy. Their real punishments will come later when they discover their reputations and careers in ruins.

Through the security feeds, I watch Jenny settle onto her bed as she draws up her knees. Her fingers trail over the well-worn spine of what appears to be “Pride and Prejudice.” I recognize the battered blue cover from my research into her habits.

“Another night with Mr. Darcy?” I murmur, allowing myself this moment of weakness while I lean closer to the monitor. The way her lips curve into a small, private smile while she reads makes my heart constrict. Such a simple pleasure yet watching her find peace in those pages fills me with an unfamiliar warmth. She seems much more relaxed now.

Soon, those same lips will shape my name. Soon, those eyes will look at me with recognition, understanding dawning as the pieces click into place—the mysterious buyer of her company is the shadow from her past, and the man who’s orchestrated everything to keep her safe.

“Will you hate me when you know?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Or will you understand why I had to do it all?”

I brush my fingers against the screen, tracing the outline of her peaceful form. The thought of revealing myself splits me in two—part of me burns to finally step into the light, while another part dreads the moment she discovers just how deeply I’ve embedded myself in her life.

I drain my glass and pour another. The vodka dulls the urge to cross the street, to confess my surveillance and protection. She’s not ready for those truths. Not yet.

I finally feel ready for sleep but perform my usual routine—staring out at the street below once more before leaving this apartment to go up to my penthouse and sleep alone in the bed that feels far too huge and empty without Jenny beside me in it.

Usually, I see nothing. Tonight, movement catches my attention. A hooded figure exits Jenny’s building, their steps quick and purposeful against the night-darkened sidewalk. The security cameras pivot to track them, but the angle and shadows obscure any clear view of their face.

I tighten my fingers tighten around my glass as the figure pulls their hood closer, ducking their head against the chill November air. Their movements sets off warning signals—the controlled precision, and the way they check over their shoulder before rounding the corner—leave me unnerved.

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