Page 13 of Stalker's Toy

There's a rustling, the sound of papers or maybe social calendars being rearranged. "I know how you are, Henrik. Work, work, work. You've never been one to indulge me."

Her words bristle with disapproval, her need for attention the only constant in our tangled history.

I wait, giving her the chance to say what she really means. "I've been thinking," she continues, "it's about time you found someone to settle down with. Someone who can share your... unique temperament."

Her pause is deliberate, loaded with expectation.

I know what comes next because it's the samesong, the same verse, and I never cared for the tune. "A wife, Henrik. Someone to carry on the Lindberg name."

Her words settle over me like ash, and I let them linger before responding. "I had a wife before, Mother.I wasn't aware it still needed carrying." My voice is more detached than I intend.

More of her laughter, this time with an edge that could cut glass. "It won't carry itself, dear. And you’re not getting any younger."

I'm tempted to tell her what she doesn't want to hear–that I've found someone, but not in the way she hopes.

The woman she's picturing doesn't have Mia's scars, her stubborn refusal to be claimed by anyone or anything.

The woman my mother wants for me doesn't exist.

She talks about the Lindberg name like it's the family silver, an heirloom that needs polishing.

"I've taken the liberty of identifying several possibilities for you," she presses on, undeterred by my silence. "They're all very promising. Accomplished, beautiful. Kind-hearted, even."

In other words, carefully curated.

"I'm touched by your concern, as always," I say, meaning none of it.

But this time, I throw her a bone. "There mightalready be someone." It feels like a confession, like a delicious betrayal.

The line is quiet, and I imagine her eyebrows shooting up in surprised delight.

"Truly?" she asks, and for once her voice is free of affectation.

I picture her leaning forward, waiting to devour every scrap of information I offer.

I give her no more.

"I'll know soon enough," I say, the thought of Mia filling the spaces between my words.

Her face, her body, everything I've learned about her in the past ten hours.

An illicit thrill races through me.

This is more than just rebellion.

It's possession.

It's everything my mother would hate and everything I want.

"You've never mentioned her," she says, the ice returning to her tone as she regains control.

I let the moment hang, savoring her uncertainty.

"I wasn't aware it needed mentioning," I reply, echoing my earlier dismissal.

There's a slight hitch in her breath, a crack in her veneer.

This time it's me who cuts theconversation short.

---