Page 236 of Love Me Stalk Me
Warehouse.
I'm in a warehouse.
Not abandoned, though. The space is filled with merchandise—designer bags stacked in neat piles, boxes of electronics sealed and labeled, racks of clothing still bearing tags. It looks like the backroom of a high-end department store, except everything is clearly stolen.
And then I see him.
Evan.
He stands a few feet away, his stance casual, almost bored. He's loosened his tie, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt to reveal forearms I once thought were sexy. His golden hair is slightly mussed, as if he's been running his hands through it in frustration. He's looking at me like I'm something he forgot to throw out—an inconvenience, a task he needs to deal with before moving on to moreimportant things.
And just like that, any confusion, any disorientation I felt vanishes, burned away by the white-hot clarity of rage. My mind focuses on the man in front of me.
Because I should have known.
Of course it's him.
Evan steps closer, his Italian leather loafers—the ones he once bragged cost more than my monthly rent—pad against the concrete. His face is partially shadowed under the flickering warehouse lights, but I can still see the amusement curling at the edges of his mouth.
So fucking smug.
Like he's already won, like this was inevitable, like I should have seen it coming.
Maybe I should have.
I don't move. I don't cower or twist away or beg. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me panic, of confirming what he's always believed—that I'm weak, that I need him, that I'm nothing without him.
The thugs he’s with exit the space and he crouches down in front of me, reaching out to grip my chin between his fingers. His touch is familiar in the worst possible way. His fingers dig into my skin as he tilts my face up to his, forcing eye contact, asserting control just like he always did. Even now, he touches me like I belong to him.
"You really fucked things up for me, Izzy," he murmurs, his voice almost conversational, with an undercurrent of amusement that makes my skin crawl.
I glare at him, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away.
He tsks—that condescending sound he started making after everything changed—and shakes his head like I'm a child who doesn't understand the consequences of her actions. "I was going to dump your ass, you know that? Had it all planned out." He releases my chin with a jerk that nearly snaps my neck, standing back up to his full height and beginning a slow, methodical circle around me.
“But then I lost my job. Six months without work. No calls back. My savings bleeding out," he continues, a bitter edge to his voice. "Then I got offered a ‘consulting’ job.” He makes air quotes, his smile turning cruel. "Turns out what they needed was someone who understood high-end retail supply chains. Someone who could help them identify which merchandise to target, how to move it without getting caught."
He gestures broadly at the warehouse full of stolen goods. "Designer items, electronics, luxury watches—low volume, high value. We divert shipments, falsify inventory records, then sell everything overseas at a massive profit.It's beautiful, really."
His eyes narrow as he looks down at me. "I was ready to start fresh. New job, new girl—one who wouldn't remind me of my failure." He sneers. "Then you got that assistant manager promotion at Monarch, and suddenly you were useful. 'Keep her close,' they said. 'She's our way in.' And I had to pretend I still wanted you.
“Two more years," he spits, disgust evident in every syllable. “Two years of playing the supportive boyfriend while you climbed the corporate ladder. Listening to you whine about your day. Pretending to care about your pathetic little dreams. And then you let yourself go. Gained all that weight. Started taking up space. God, it was repulsive." He runs a hand through his hair in the gesture I once found endearing. Now it just looks rehearsed. "Do you know what it's like? Having to touch someone you're revolted by? Pretending you still find them attractive?”
He crouches again, getting closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—the one I bought him last Christmas, thinking it would make him happy, make him love me more. The scent now makes me wretch.
“And thenfinallyyou got the manager position,” he sneers. "Access to the inventory system, security codes, order forms. A perfect little puppet who could start ordering extra merchandise—thousands, maybe millions of dollars worth—without raising any red flags."
I think about every night I cried myself to sleep because I thought I wasn't good enough for him, every time I apologized for things that weren't my fault, every pound I tried to lose because he made me feel too big, too much, too everything.
"But then you had to go and develop a fucking spine." His lips curl into a sneer, his hand wrapping around my throat—not tight enough to cut off air, just enough to remind me that he could. "You just had to play hero. And now? All that work? For nothing."
He leans in, so close I can feel his breath against my ear, lowering his voice like we're sharing a secret. "But not for nothing."
His free hand slides into his jacket with practiced ease, and cold steel presses against my cheek. The shock of it sends ice through my veins, freezing me in place more effectively than any restraint.
I stiffen as he drags the barrel of the gun down the curve of my face with almost tender precision, pausing at my jaw, tilting my chin up with it. The metal is cool and unyielding, a deadly promise against my skin.
"You're going to fix this, Izzy." His voice is almost gentle, the way it used to be when he'd apologize after making me cry, when he'd promise things would be different, better. They never were.
