Elena Rivers
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She didn't sleep.
Not after the photo. Not after the envelope.
Not after the silence that came afterward, which somehow screamed louder than anything she could remember.
The night bled into dawn like a bruise that wouldn't heal.
Elena sat on the kitchen floor, knees pulled tight to her chest, her phone clutched in her hand. No missed calls. No messages. No one she could trust enough to say—I think someone's watching me. Again.
And it wasn't just fear anymore.
It was certainty.
She had locked every door, double-checked every window, and still felt exposed. Her skin itched. Her mind raced.
But what made it worse—what truly twisted something inside her—was the fact that a part of her had known.
From the beginning.
That look Damien gave her the night of the gala—the silence between his words, the way he'd touched her without touching her at all—it was never attraction. It was possession. Polished, expensive, carefully veiled.
She hadn't wanted to believe it.
Now she couldn't unsee it.
A soft sound pulled her from her spiral. Not a knock this time. A slide. Paper on tile.
Her eyes snapped to the gap beneath her front door. A folded piece of black stationery had been pushed through.
She crawled toward it slowly, breath held, as if even the act of reading could collapse her world further.
She unfolded it.
One sentence. Neatly typed.
"You're not losing your mind, Elena. I'm in it."
Her hands shook. She looked up.
Nothing. No footsteps. No shadows through the peephole.
But she felt him.
Not outside.
Inside.
And the worst part?
She didn't know if she wanted him to stop.
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