Page 23 of Perfect Stalker

“Is that why you joined theBratva?” I press, desperate to understand. “Because of the orphanage?”

His eyes harden. “You’re asking a lot of questions, Jenny.”

“I’m trying to understand you,” I say, frustration creeping into my voice. “You’ve turned my life upside down. Don’t I deserveto know something about the man who’s controlling my every move?”

He stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Without warning, he turns and walks to the closet. “Get dressed,” he says over his shoulder. “We’re going out.”

I blink, thrown by the sudden change of subject. “What? Where?”

“Dinner,” he says, and I notice for the first time he’s carrying a garment bag. “Wear this.”

He hands me the bag, and I unzip it to reveal a stunning green dress. It’s beautiful, but the gesture only confuses me more. “Ivan,” I start, “I don’t understand?—”

“Get ready.” With that, he turns and stalks out.

After a shower, I slip into the green dress, the silky fabric caressing my skin as it falls into place. The fit is perfect, hugging my curves in all the right places. I wonder how Ivan knew my size so precisely. It’s a thought that both impresses and unnerves me as I recall the times I’ve found things out of place in my apartment in the past few months. He admitted to one visit, but there must have been others.

With a final glance in the mirror, I smooth down the dress and apply some lipstick. My reflection stares back at me, both elegant and uncertain. I shake my head, dispelling the doubts. This is just dinner, I remind myself. Nothing more.

I step out of the guest room and make my way to the living room. Ivan is there, his back to me as he gazes out the massive windows. The city sprawls before him.

“I’m ready,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

He turns, and desire fills is eyes. “You look beautiful,” he says, his accent suddenly more pronounced, and his tone is smoky.

I fight the urge to fidget. “Thank you. The dress is lovely.”

He nods, then gestures toward the elevator. “Shall we?”

I expect us to head down, but instead, he presses the button for the roof. My curiosity piques, but I remain silent as we ascend.

The elevator doors open to reveal a sight that takes my breath away. The rooftop has been transformed into a private oasis. Twinkling lights are strung overhead, casting a soft glow over an intimate table set for two. A gentle breeze carries the scent of blooming flowers from strategically placed planters, but not so close as to stimulate my allergies, and discreet outdoor heaters counter the chill in the air.

“This is incredible,” I say, taking in the scene.

He smiles. “I thought you might appreciate a change of scenery.”

We approach the table, and he pulls out my chair. As I sit, I notice a man in chef’s whites standing discreetly to the side. A private chef. Of course.

Ivan takes his seat across from me, never looking away. “I hope you’re hungry.”

I nod as the chef approaches, presenting us with the first course—a delicate seafood appetizer. While we begin to eat, he says, “Tell me, Jenny, did you enjoy your work at ‘Silver Fox’ before?”

I hesitate, remembering the office politics and frustrations. “I liked my job well enough. It was my coworkers who made it unpleasant.”

He nods. “I’m aware—which is why you, the night guards, and the janitorial staff are the only ones I kept. Your talents were wasted before, but I have plans for you at ‘Markov Entertainment.’”

My fork pauses halfway to my mouth, and I’m stunned to learn he fired everyone because of how they treated me, but also because... “Plans?”

He smiles. “We’ll discuss the details later. For now, let’s enjoy our meal.”

The conversation flows more easily as we make our way through the exquisite courses. Ivan asks about my family, my hobbies, and my dreams for the future. It’s surreal, sitting here on this rooftop, having what feels like a normal dinner date with a man who is anything but normal.

As the chef clears away our dessert plates, he settles back in his chair, swirling the last of his wine in his glass. “I’ve made a decision,” he says, his tone casual but with an underlying firmness that makes me tense. “We’ll be moving into the penthouse permanently.”

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“It makes sense,” he continues, as if we’re discussing something as mundane as the weather. “I no longer need to keep an eye on you from the twentieth floor. This way, I can ensure your safety more efficiently.”

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