Page 97 of Stalker's Toy

Henrik's piercing blue eyes, usually so captivating, now feel like they're boring into my soul, searching for truths I'm desperate to keep hidden.

My skin goes clammy, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead and the back of my neck.

I can't breathe.

The walls of the pub seem to close in around me, the chatter of other patrons fading to a dull roar in my ears.

Henrik doesn't know.

He can't know.

But the weight of my involvement in Anastasia's death presses down on me, threatening to crush me beneath its burden.

Will I have to tell him someday?

The thought makes me dizzy with fear. How could I possibly explain?

Would he understand that it was an accident, a terrible confluence of events that led to that fateful night?

"Mia?" Henrik's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Are you all right? You've gone pale."

I blink, forcing myself back to the present.

Henrik's brow is furrowed with concern, his long, artist's fingers reaching across the table as if to touch my hand.

I pull back instinctively, grabbing my glass instead.

"I'm fine," I manage, taking a long sip of my drink.

The alcohol burns its way down my throat, grounding me. "Just... thinking about what you said. About life not working out the way we expect."

I set the glass down, tracing a finger through the condensation on its surface. "Sometimes life works out in ways we don't think it will," I continue, carefullychoosing my words. "Things happen to alter our lives, and there's an underlying reason for it. Even if we can't see it at the time."

Henrik leans back, considering my words.

His eyes never leave my face, and I wonder if he can sense the turmoil beneath my calm exterior.

"An interesting perspective," he muses. "Do you believe in fate, then? That everything happens for a reason?"

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. "I don't know about fate. But I think... sometimes the most unexpected changes can lead us to where we're meant to be. Or who we're meant to be with."

The words hang between us, laden with meaning.

Henrik's expression softens, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Perhaps you're right,Nattblomma. Perhaps you're right. Maybe Anastasia died so I could be with you."

The words hit me like a physical blow.

My heart stutters, and I feel the blood drain from my face.

I grasp my glass tightly, knuckles turning white, as if it could anchor me to reality.

"Maybe she did," I mutter, barely audible.

The pub around us fades into a dull hum asmy mind races.

Images flash before my eyes—fire, smoke, a woman's scream cut short.

I blink hard, trying to banish the memories.

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