Page 69 of Stalker's Toy

"Mia, darling, you okay?" Her words have a slight slur, her usually crisp British accent softened by alcohol.

I nod, pushing myself off the wall. "Yeah, just needed some air. Think I overdid it a bit."

Larsa giggles, a sound so carefree it makes my heart ache. "We both did, I think. Shall we call it a night?"

The idea of returning to our empty flat makes my stomach churn, but I know we can't stay out much longer in this state.

"Probably for the best," I agree reluctantly.

We start walking, oursteps unsteady.

Larsa loops her arm through mine, and I'm grateful for the support.

The streets of London, usually so familiar, seem to shift and blur around us.

"You know," Larsa says, her voice dreamy, "I think tonight was rather brilliant. The way everyone came together for your show idea. It's going to be magnificent, Mia."

I feel a surge of warmth at her words, mixed with a familiar twist of anxiety. "You really think so?"

"Of course!" Larsa exclaims, nearly tripping over a crack in the pavement.

We both laugh as we right ourselves. "You have a vision, darling. And the talent to back it up."

I'm about to respond when I hear footsteps behind us.

My body tenses instinctively, memories of that night threatening to surface.

But the alcohol has dulled my usual hypervigilance, and Larsa's presence is comforting.

"Did you hear that?" I murmur, not wanting to alarm her.

Larsa just hums contentedly. "Hear what?”

I glance back, seeing two men walking a short distance behind us.

In my current state, I can't tell if they're following us or just heading in the same direction.

The rational part of my brain tells me to be cautious, but the alcohol-soaked part just wants to keep moving, to get home and collapse into bed.

"Come on," I say, tugging Larsa along. "Let's pick up the pace a bit."

We stumble forward, giggling as we try to coordinate our steps.

The world spins pleasantly around us, the cool night air a balm on my flushed skin.

For a moment, I let myself forget about the men behind us, about the weight of my past, about the pressure of the upcoming show.

At this moment, I'm just a young woman walking home with a friend after a night out in London.

And for now, that feels like enough.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Henrik

I pour another drink, throw it back, pour one more, then make my way down the hall, past my own paintings glaring at me in their familiar way.

Past the private gallery, past the storage space where I've kept every piece I couldn't bear to sell.

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