Page 63 of Forced plus-size Bride of the Bratva

Then it gets darker when I find pictures of me on dates. With Jacob. With Brody. With Milo. All guys who ghosted me after an amazing first date and acted like they didn’t know me after.

I feel sick.

How the hell did they even get that?

Everywhere. He’s been everywhere.

The club. The classroom. The street. My goddamn dates.

I press my hands to my mouth, trying to keep the gasp from ripping out of me.

I thought I was angry before.

I thought I understood what this life felt like.

But this….

This is something else entirely.

These photos span years. Not weeks. Not months. Over a year. Which means while I was laughing with friends, going on terrible dates, crying over exams, and trying to move on with my life, Adrian was always there. Watching. Recording. Waiting.

Was I ever truly alone?

Suddenly, so many things start to click. The date that ended early because the guy got a strange phone call. The apartment repairs that happened “coincidentally” right after I complained about a leak. The night I thought I was being followed, but chalked it up to nerves.

He was behind all of it.

He’s been in my world longer than I thought. Or wanted. Or allowed.

And he didn’t just watch. He interfered.

How many of those moments in my life weren’t mine? How many were his doing?

I back away from the drawer, my hands trembling.

I don’t know if I’m more terrified of what I’ve found—or of the part of me that already knew. The part of me that felt it, deep down, the first time I saw him at my door.

The part of me that wanted to be wanted—just not like this.

Suddenly, the door opens and I whirl, my eyes widening.

Adrian stands in the doorway, tall, unreadable, a shadow slicing through the low light of his office.

His eyes fall to the open drawer. Then to the photos in my hand. Then to me.

For a moment, nothing moves. Not the air. Not him. Not me.

My heart is slamming against my chest like it wants out. Like I want out.

He takes one step in. The door shuts behind him with a soft click that sounds more like a warning than anything else.

“I see you’ve been busy,” he says, voice low. Controlled. Dangerous.

I don’t back away. I won’t.

The hurt is too sharp. Too real.

I grab a fistful of the photos and throw them at his chest. They scatter in the air like broken pieces of trust.