Page 49 of Stalk Me

“Coming!” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat before opening the door.

Tash stands there in her signature red lipstick, holding up a bottle of wine. “I brought the good stuff. That Bordeaux you—” She stops mid-sentence, her smile fading. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I force my lips into what I hope is a convincing smile. “Just tired from a busy week at the gallery.”

She narrows her eyes, stepping inside. “Sofia Henley, I’ve known you since Columbia. That’s your ‘everything is definitely not fine’ face.”

“Really, I’m okay.” I take the wine from her, busying myself with opening it. My hands shake slightly as I work the corkscrew. “How was your day?”

“Uh-uh.” Tash crosses her arms. “Don’t try to deflect. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I pour the wine, watching the dark liquid swirl in the glasses. The drawer containing the cameras feels like it’s burning a hole in my consciousness.

“I’m fine,” I insist, plastering on an even bigger smile. “Just... processing some things from work. You know how it gets.”

Tash takes the glass I offer her, but her expression remains skeptical. “If you say so. But remember what I always tell you?—”

“‘You can’t bullshit a bullshitter,’” I finish with her, managing a small genuine laugh. “I know, I know.”

She settles onto the couch, patting the spot next to her. “Well, whatever it is, nothing that a good movie and better wine can’t help, right?”

I sink beside her, grateful for her presence even if I can’t tell her the truth. Not yet. Not when I’m still trying to process it myself.

I curl deeper into the couch cushions, pretending to watch whatever romantic comedy Tash picked. On-screen, the leading couple shares their first kiss, but I can only think about Nikolai’s hands on my body last night—the same hands that must have placed those cameras and violated my sanctuary.

My skin crawls. How many times did he watch me? Getting dressed, dancing around my kitchen while cooking, crying over a bad day at work? All those intimate moments I thought were mine alone.

The wine turns sour in my mouth. Last night, I gave him everything—my body, my trust. And the whole time, he’d been watching me like some twisted voyeur.

“Earth to Sofia?” Tash’s hand dances before my eyes. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

“Sorry, just...” My phone buzzes against my thigh, Nikolai’s name lighting up the screen.

Thinking of you, malishka. Still taste you on my tongue.

My fingers clench around the phone. The words make me want to throw up. Or throw something. How dare Nikolai act so intimate with me while secretly spying on me?

Another text follows.

When can I see you again?

The phone slips from my suddenly numb fingers. Heat floods my face—not from desire this time, but pure rage.

“Sofia?” Tash’s concerned voice barely registers. “You look like you’re about to murder someone.”

If only she knew how right she was. I want to storm over to Nikolai’s penthouse and confront him. Demand answers. Butthe cold calculation behind those cameras stops me. This isn’t just about desire or control—this is something darker.

My phone buzzes again. I don’t look at it. Can’t look at it. Each message feels like another violation, another reminder that the man I thought I could trust is really a predator. A dangerous one.

19

NIKOLAI

Ipace my office, every muscle taut with rage. The screen showing Sofia’s apartment mocks me with the inside of a drawer where my cameras have been shoved. Mymalishkafigured it out, just as I knew she would. She’s too intelligent not to have connected the dots.

My phone remains silent. No calls, no texts. The void of her absence claws at my chest.

“You’re wearing a hole in the carpet,” Dmitri says from the doorway.

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