Page 10 of Perfect Stalker

“Marcus, do we have eyes on the street cameras?” I press the comm link in my ear.

“Negative, Ivan. The angle’s wrong, and the lighting is poor. Could be a resident.”

I grunt in acknowledgment, but unease lingers. The figure’s stride speaks of someone who knows they’re being watched, or someone practiced at avoiding detection. Not the casual gait of a neighbor heading home.

“Clove, pull up Jenny’s apartment feed,” I say to my AI system, setting down my drink.

The wall of screens flickers, showing multiple angles of her space. Relief floods through me at the sight of her curled on her bed, chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep. One hand is tucked beneath her cheek.

“Check the building’s entry logs, Marcus. I want to know who just left.”

“On it.” His fingers audibly tap across his keyboard. “Nothing unusual showing up. No unauthorized entries or exits in the past hour.”

I pace the length of my office, unable to shake the nagging sense that something’s wrong. The mysterious figure replays in my mind. “I saw someone leave the building. Have someone check the security cameras for any blind spots or tampering.”

“Will do, Ivan. Should I alert Ms. Graham’s detail?”

“Da.” I return to the window, scanning the now-empty street. “Let her sleep though. Just make sure everyone stays alert.”

I drain my glass, the premium vodka burning a path down my throat. On screen, Jenny shifts in her sleep, drawing her blanket closer. The sight of her safe in her bed eases some of the tension in my shoulders, but I can’t dismiss the cold certainty that someone was watching her tonight.

Marcus reports back to me moments later. “Nothing, Ivan. No matches to Williams or any known associates in the past twenty-four hours. I’ve cross-referenced against employee records, visitor logs, and delivery personnel. No suspicious activity detected.”

“Keep monitoring.” Through the surveillance feeds, I keep watch over Jenny curled up on her bed.

“Ivan?” Marcus clears his throat. “About the figure we spotted...”

“A resident, surely.” The words taste bitter because I don’t know for sure. “Or a visitor, perhaps. Jenny’s safe. That’s what matters.”

I study the feeds. She shifts position, drawing her knees up as she settles deeper into her pillows. Those ridiculous penguin pajamas make her look young and vulnerable. The urge to cross the street and check on her personally burns through me.

“Soon, little bird,” I murmur in Russian. “Soon, you’ll understand everything I do is to keep you safe.”

CHAPTER 5

JENNY

Istep into the office, my heels striking a sharp staccato against the polished marble floor. Natalia smiles when she spots me from behind her curved reception desk when I reach the C-Suite.

“Good morning, Jenny.” She practically bounces in her chair, her Russian accent lending a musical quality to her words. She taps her manicured fingers excitedly on her desk calendar. “Mr. Markov asked me to show you to your new office. He was very specific about having everything ready for you.” She stands, smoothing her skirt. “And between us,” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ve never seen him so particular about an office setup before.”

I blink, caught off guard. “New office?”

She nods, her enthusiasm infectious. “Come on. I’ll show you!”

Her heels click against the marble floor as she guides me through an unfamiliar wing of the building. I didn’t realize thiswas here, but I never spent much time on this floor when Miranda was the CEO. The hallway stretches before us, all gleaming wood panels and indirect lighting. When she pauses in front of a heavy wooden door with subtle brass accents, my pulse quickens.

“Ready?” Her eyes sparkle with excitement as she twists the handle.

The door swings open, and I stumble back a step. “Oh, my… Wow...”

Sunlight streams through wall-length windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, bathing the room in natural light. Beyond the glass, Atlanta’s skyscrapers pierce the clouds. A massive mahogany desk commands attention in the corner—the wood so polished I can see my reflection. The leather chair behind it looks butter-soft.

“This can’t be...” My voice trails off when I spot the seating area—a cream-colored sectional with accent pillows that probably cost more than my old Honda. Abstract paintings in muted blues and grays hang on the walls, perfectly complementing the room’s sophisticated palette.

“The computer.” Natalia points to a curved ultra-wide monitor flanked by two smaller screens. “Mr. Markov insisted on the latest model, and look—” She opens a hidden panel in the wall. “Private bathroom too.”

“This...this can’t be right,” I stammer. “This looks like a CEO’s office, not?—”

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