Page 96 of Stalked
My hands shake as I grip the edge of the sink.
I'd surrendered everything to him. My independence. My carefully constructed life in New York. My sense of self-preservation. All because I'd convinced myself that what we had was love—intense, obsessive, all-consuming love.
But love doesn't plan torture sessions over dinner with family.
The bathroom door feels a million miles away. I need to get back to the living room, act normal, pretend I didn't hear anything. But my legs won't move.
What am I supposed to do with this knowledge? Pretend I didn't hear? Continue living in willful ignorance while Vane does—what? Kills people who cross them?
My reflection stares back at me, mascara-stained and hollow-eyed.
I splash more cold water on my face, erasing the evidence of my shock. With shaking hands, I reapply my lipstick, blot away the mascara smudges, and force my breathing to slow. One breath in. One breath out. The composed gallery owner stares back at me from the mirror, but her eyes hold a new resolve I've never seen before.
Who is this man I've given myself to? The boy I ran from fifteen years ago has become something I can barely comprehend.
As I step into the hallway, I can still hear their voices drifting from the dining room—casual discussions of violence as if planning a business merger. I quicken my pace, desperate to put distance between myself and those words.
I've been living in a fairy tale since returning to Ravenwood. The obsessive lover who waited fifteen years, who arranged my perfect job, my perfect apartment—all to bring me back to him. I'd found it romantic, thrilling even. But now I see the darker reality beneath that devotion.
What else don't I know about Vane Blackwood? About the empire he and his brothers have built?
By the time I reach the living room doorway, I've made my decision. I won't run this time—that never worked before. But I won't remain willfully blind either.
I'm going to discover exactly who Vane is. What he does. How far does his obsession truly extend? I'll use every resource at my disposal—my position at the gallery, my newfound friendships with these women, my access to his home, his life.
I paste on a smile as I rejoin the group, accepting another espresso martini from Mira with steady hands.
“Everything okay?” Bianca asks, studying my face.
“Perfect,” I lie, raising my glass. “Just thinking about how nice this is.”
But beneath my smile, the vow hardens like concrete in my chest. I'm going to uncover every secret Vane's kept from me, no matter what it costs.
38
VANE
Something's off with Lia.
I watch her move around the kitchen, her movements tense. For a week now, since the family dinner, she's been different. Jumpy. Distracted. The way she flinches slightly when I touch her unexpectedly. The way her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.
“You sure you're okay?” I ask, coming up behind her as she makes coffee.
“I'm fine,” she says, leaning back against me but not fully relaxing. “Just tired.”
Liar. I know her body better than she does. Something's changed, but she won't tell me what.
“You should get more sleep,” I say, pressing my lips to her neck. “Good thing you didn't come to the gala last night. It went late.”
And violent. But she doesn't need to know that.
“My migraine was terrible,” she murmurs, turning to face me. “How did it go?“
“Boring charity bullshit.” I keep my tone casual. “Rich assholes pretending to care about homeless kids while they drink thousand-dollar champagne.”
What I don't tell her is how Ilya Orlov made his move, tried to ambush us.
I especially don't mention how Orlov is now chained in our warehouse, waiting for me.
