Page 89 of Stalked

I nod, grateful beyond words for this chance encounter. My high school friends would try to stage an intervention if I told them half of what happened in that maze. They'd neverunderstand how right it feels to finally stop running from Vane, from myself.

“It's strange,” I say quietly. “I feel more like myself now than I have in fifteen years.”

35

LIA

Istand in the middle of my penthouse apartment, surrounded by half-packed boxes. Morning light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating dust particles dancing in the air. Just two months ago, this place represented my fresh start in Ravenwood—my sanctuary, my independence.

Now it's being dismantled, piece by piece.

“This one's labeledgallery files,” calls one of Vane's men, holding up a sealed box.

I nod. “That goes in the priority stack.”

The door swings open, and Vane strides in with the confidence of someone who already owns the space.

“Making progress?” He surveys the scene, eyes lingering on the furniture. “You don't need to bring all this, wildflower. I have everything you need at my place.”

I straighten my spine. “I'm bringing my desk. And the bookshelf.”

“The desk?” His eyebrows rise. “Mine is bigger. Better quality, too.”

“This desk is where I've done all my curatorial work for the past decade.” I run my fingers along its polished surface. “Andthe bookshelf was my first major purchase with my gallery bonus in New York.”

Something in my tone must register because Vane's expression shifts. He approaches me, hands finding my waist.

“If they're important to you, they come with us.”

I relax. “Thank you.”

After another hour of packing, Vane suggests we head to his place and leave the men to bring my belongings in the truck.

As I walk into the open plan living area, I freeze by Vane's living room windows, my breath catches in my throat. Across a narrow gap between buildings—maybe thirty feet at most—is my apartment. My apartment, which I can see into with perfect clarity, is visible. My bedroom. My living room. The kitchen where Vane made me breakfast the other morning.

“You can see... everything.” My voice sounds distant, even to myself.

Vane steps behind me, his chest against my back. “That's why I chose this unit.”

The casual way he says it makes my blood run cold. I turn slowly to face him.

“You chose this penthouse specifically to watch me?”

He shrugs. "I own that apartment. I made sure Elliot showed you it at a ridiculously low price."

My eyes dart around the room, noticing details I'd missed. In the corner sits what I'd assumed was a decorative brass telescope on a stand. Now I understand its true purpose.

"You've been watching me. Since I moved back." I trace my finger along the windowsill, a small smile playing at my lips. "My most private moments—including last night when I couldn't sleep without you."

"I've always watched you," he admits, stepping closer. "Even in New York, though I could never see enough."

I turn to face him fully. "The apartment across from mine. The perfect view. The telescope." I shake my head, torn between admiration and exasperation. "You really thought of everything, didn't you?"

His jaw tightens, waiting for the explosion that doesn't come.

"Fifteen years of planning," I continue, moving toward him instead of away. "Every detail calculated to bring me back to you. Even my own bedroom."

"Everything I did was to bring you back where you belong."