Page 69 of Love Me Stalk Me
Like he's giving them a moment to absorb it.
To let them see that I'm leaving with him.
To let Evan understand exactly what he's done.
I hate that I notice how his touch burns through the material, hate that I'm hyperaware of every square inch where his skin meets mine through the fabric. Hate that it makes my spine tingle, that it makes me feel safe even as I feel completely humiliated at what just happened. The conflict of emotions is almost dizzying—embarrassment from the scene with Evan and Monroe warring with the strange comfort of Cal's protective presence.
The soft tapping of my heels against the floor feels too loud in my ears as we walk, the murmur of conversation fading behind us. His steps are deliberate, his posture rigid but controlled, his presence beside me a solid wall between me and everything else.
The door to the VIP area closes behind us with a soft click that somehow echoes in my ears, and something in me cracks. Not enough to show. Not yet. But enough that I already feel the tears burning behind my eyes, the pressure building in my chest, my throat tighteningwith the effort of holding it all in. The air in the hallway feels suddenly too thin, too warm, not enough to fill my lungs properly.
We walk back to my office in complete silence. The hallway seems longer than usual, the carpet absorbing the sound of our footsteps, the air thick with words neither of us is saying.
I keep my head down, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, on maintaining the illusion of composure for just a little longer. My hair falls forward, creating a curtain between me and the world, between me and him. The familiar scent of my shampoo—coconut and vanilla—surrounds me, offering a small comfort as I try to keep myself together.
My pulse is hammering, my throat thick, heavy with unshed tears. Evan has never done something like that before. He's crossed lines before, but not like this.
He's been cruel, sure. Dismissive. Manipulative. His comments about my body, my weight, my clothes—they've always been delivered with a smile, with a kiss on the cheek, with that tone that says he's just trying to help. Just trying to make me better. Always private, always wrapped in enough care to make me doubt whether I was overreacting.
But never that public. Never that brazen. Never humiliated me in front of people—at my own job—like I was some project he was working on. Like he was so proud of himself for getting me 'fixed.' Like I was a before-and-after advertisement for his exceptional taste and guidance.
I clench my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms, trying to hold myself together through sheer force of will. The pain cuts through the chaos—it’s something I can control. The crescent marks in my skin tether me here, keep me from slipping under.
Don't cry. Not in front of him. Not in front of Cal.
I feel Callahan's presence beside me, his body heat radiating even though we're not touching anymore. His energy always feels so big, like he’s so completely in control. He takes up space not just physically—though God knows his frame is imposing enough—but with something else, something intangible, something that makes the air around him feel charged.
The exact opposite of how I feel right now—small, diminished, shattered into pieces I'm desperately trying to hold together.
We reach my office, and I push inside without waiting, moving to my desk with quick steps, desperate for space. My eyes catch on the stack of inventory reports I'd been analyzing before Monroe's visit.
I automatically straighten the papers, a habit from years of organizing data to make sense of a chaotic world. Even now, with my emotions threatening to spill over, my hands move with practiced precision, aligning edges, smoothing corners, creating order where I can becauseeverything else feels so out of control. The rustling of the papers fills the silence, giving me something to focus on besides the man standing behind me.
"I'm fine," I say, not that he asked. My voice is flat, empty, mechanical. The words come out rehearsed because they are—how many times have I said them before? How many times have I pretended to be okay when I wasn't? The phrase is worn smooth from overuse, a pebble I've carried in my pocket for years.
I don't look at him.
I can't.
If I do, I might break apart completely.
"Thanks," I add, still keeping my head down, blinking hard to force back the tears that threaten to spill over. My vision blurs at the edges, the colors of my spreadsheets running together. "But I need to get back to work."
I wait, hands still resting on the papers, body tense. The ticking of the clock on the wall marks each second, unnaturally loud in my quiet office.
I wait for the sound of him leaving. For the door to open and click shut. For the moment when I can finally let go, when I can stop holding myself together so tightly.
Finally, I hear the door close behind him.
Relief starts to bloom—until I hear the lock turn.
The sound is deliberate. Unmistakable. Metal sliding into place with a finality that makes my breath catch. My heart skips, stutters, then races to catch up.
He's not leaving. He’s staying. On purpose. And suddenly, everything I’ve been holding back starts to shake loose.
The dam breaks. Just like that.
Tears spill over, hot and unrelenting, sliding down my cheeks before I can stop them. I try. God, I try. But it's useless now. The pressure’s too much.
