Page 1 of Sinful Obsession

PROLOGUE

CHARLOTTE

August 1, 2025.

It’s been four months since I left Cassian, my ex husband.

Four months since I abandoned a life soaked in blood, betrayal, and secrets no one should ever have to keep.

I came to Atlanta with nothing but a single suitcase and scars I couldn’t name. I’d been drowning in panic attacks, body image trauma, and a darkness that had made me question if I even wanted to live. But I wanted to try. To rebuild.

That’s why I enrolled in an Intensive Outpatient Program—IOP.

Four days a week. Group therapy in the mornings. Individual counseling in the afternoons. Breathing exercises. EMDR. Even music therapy.

The therapists didn’t flinch when I said things like,I don’t like to look in mirrorsorI wake up not remembering what’s real.

They didn’t pity me. They listened. And that helped.

Still, I kept to myself. No new friends. No shared details. No risks. The last time I let people in, they broke me.

I hadn’t cut myself since I started attending therapy, haven’t woken in the night with screams trapped in my throat.

Cassian had respected my decision to leave—or so I thought.

Giving me space was the one thing I never expected from him. But he did.

No phone calls. No surprise visits. Just... silence.

And yet... I knew I was being watched.

The first time, it was footsteps by my window late at night.

Too heavy to be a cat. Too deliberate to be an accident.

The second time, I walked out of my building and found a single red rose laid across the hood of my car. No note. No name. Just the flower—its petals already starting to wilt.

The third time, I returned from IOP to find my apartment door locked... but the window cracked open, just enough to let in a breeze. And the frame smelled like a cologne I hadn’t smelled in months.

I reported it to the local police, of course.

They said they’d look into it. Nothing changed.

And at some point, I stopped caring.

If whoever was stalking me wanted to hurt me, they would’ve done it by now.

If they wanted something, they’d have demanded it.

Instead, they just... watched. Like they were waiting for something. Or someone.

I told myself it couldn’t be Cassian—he’d sworn to give me space, to let me heal. His word was iron, even if his love was a cage.

I stood in front of my vanity that morning, fastening the breast pad under my sweater

I had class.

I stepped into my car and merged onto the road toward the IOP facility.