Page 8 of Love Me Stalk Me
I do.
I answer her questions, keep my responses short, watch the way she absorbs each detail, already running through solutions in her head.
She doesn't mention last night.
Doesn't acknowledge the way our eyes met across the restaurant, or the way she hesitated before stepping intothat elevator.
Maybe she doesn't remember.
But then, right before Reyes wraps up our conversation, she glances at me again.
Just a second too long.
Just enough for me to see it—the shift in her breath.
She does remember.
She's just pretending she doesn't.
I don't know if I like that or not.
The day moves fast, a blur of meetings, system checks, and introductions that I barely register beyond what I need to know. I shake hands, nod at people I probably won't remember by the end of the shift, listen to a rundown of security policies that are incomplete at best and outright useless at worst. I spend most of the morning doing what I do best—watching.
I watch the staff, learning their patterns, their strengths, their weaknesses. There are seasoned employees who know the clientele, their voices smooth and persuasive as they close a sale. There are newer hires, eager but a little overwhelmed. And then there's her.
Isabella is everywhere.
I catch glimpses of her throughout the day, moving from department to department, switching between firm and charming depending on what the situation calls for. One minute, she's talking a new hire through a luxury sale, making sure they upsell without pushing too hard. The next, she's handling an upset vendor over the phone, smoothing out some last-minute delay.
She moves like she's the one keeping this place from collapsing. And maybe she is.
What surprises me most isn't her efficiency—I expected that. It's the way people respect her. The way employees lower their voices when she's talking, the way they listen. I've worked in plenty of places where managers act like dictators or get completely walked over. Isabella doesn't do either. She's got a grip on every element of this place, and she knows it.
What I don't know is if anyone else notices just how much she does.
If anyone actually sees her.
If that douchebag boyfriend of hers does.
The thought irritates me more than it should, but I push it aside, focus on the job.
I sit in the surveillance room, watching the monitors cycle through different angles of the store, my fingers drumming idly against the desk. Most of the day has been uneventful. A few minor shoplifting attempts, no organized efforts, no professionaltechniques.
My focus returns to her.
She's in the personal shopping suite, standing near one of the wingback armchairs that look like they belong in a cigar lounge more than a department store. Across from her, a man in his forties is perched comfortably, a tailored navy suit doing nothing to hide his sleaze. The way he leans back, swirling his drink lazily. He’s the human embodiment of trust fund divorce settlement and a Rolex he didn’t earn. I know everything about him before he even opens hs mouth.
A repeat customer. Someone used to getting what he wants.
I switch to the camera with better audio, adjusting the volume just enough to pick up the conversation.
"I actually asked for the store manager," he continues, voice slow and easy, like he has all the time in the world. "That's you, right?"
Isabella doesn't hesitate, doesn't frown or shift like she's thrown off. She just nods, keeping her expression neutral. "Yes, but my associate, Daniel, is our expert on this collection. He works directly with the designers and?—"
"I'd prefer to work with you," the man cuts in, a smirk twisting his features like this is some private joke between them. "If you don't mind."
She does, I can tell.
