Page 8 of Perfect Stalker

I whirl around my living room as every shadow morphs into a threat. I brush my fingertips against the smooth wood of the coffee table where my dog-eared romance novel sits exactly where I left it—except it’s turned ninety degrees. Maybe I just did it in a moment of unconscious precision?

My phone vibrates against the kitchen counter, the buzz echoing through my apartment. The screen lights up with an unknownnumber. Stephen again, I assume, as I stretch to scoop it up. My thumb trembles as I swipe to read the message, though I should just delete or archive it as evidence if I ever need proof of his continued harassment.

Nice PJs, Jenny. Gray penguins look cute on you.

“Oh, fuck.” I yank at my thin cotton pajama top, realizing with horror that I’m standing in full view of the opposite building’s window through a space in the vertical blinds. The playful penguins that had made me smile in the store now mock me with their cheerful expressions.

I press my back against the wall, sliding down until I hit the floor. Another buzz makes me jump.

I’m just admiring you. I will never hurt you.

“Leave me alone,” I whisper to the empty room, but my words disappear into the suffocating quiet.

CHAPTER 4

IVAN

Standing by the window, I adjust the focus on my binoculars, watching the building across the street. This is the third apartment I own in this building—purchased solely for its vantage point. The thirtieth-floor penthouse is my official residence, but I spend most nights here on the twentieth floor, waiting until Jenny falls asleep. My staff rotates shifts in another apartment on the twenty-ninth floor, ensuring everything is covered while I remain here, keeping watch.

Jenny’s silhouette moves through her exactly opposite mine twentieth-floor apartment, backlit by Atlanta’s twinkling skyline. Her hair is twisted into a messy bun with wisps falling around her face as she shuffles across her hardwood floors in those ridiculous gray pajamas covered in cartoon penguins. Even from here, I can make out the way the soft fabric clings to her curves.

“Ivan?” My best friend and head of security’s voice crackles through my earpiece. “The new surveillance feeds are live,” says Marcus.

“Good.” My breath fogs the binoculars while I track her movement to her small kitchen. “Keep monitoring.”

The wall of screens in my study displays every angle of her apartment in pristine HD quality, but I prefer this—the raw intimacy of watching her through glass and distance. When she reaches for a mug from her cabinet, I can’t resist walking to my own kitchen in an unconscious mirror of her actions. The space between our buildings feels both vast and nonexistent, a strange parallel dance neither of us acknowledges.

“Sweet little bird,” I murmur, watching her blow steam from her tea. “If you only knew how safe I keep you.”

My phone is heavy in my hand while as I watch her through the window. The sight of her padding around her apartment in those soft flannel pajamas, covered in tiny cartoonish penguins, makes something twist in my chest. I keep following her, stopping when she does.

Eventually, she freezes and stares at me. She’s aware now that I’m watching. It gives me a thrill to feel even a faint connection. Before I can stop myself, I compose a text and send it.

Nice PJs, Jenny. Gray penguins look cute on you.

The moment her phone chimes, her shoulders jerk. Her entire body goes rigid, spine straightening like a steel rod has replaced it. She spins around, her movements sharp and jarring, and so different from her usual grace. Through the binoculars, I track her frantic search of her windows—left, right, up, and down—and watch her throat work in a hard swallow. Terror etches itselfacross her features as she stumbles backward, nearly tripping over her area rug in her haste to get away from the glass.

“Shit.” Regret pierces through me like an icy blade. This wasn’t what I wanted. My fingers move quickly across the screen, desperate to undo the damage.

I’m just admiring you. I will never hurt you.

The words feel hollow and insufficient. How do I tell her that every message, every moment of surveillance, is meant to keep her safe? That the thought of her afraid—especially of me—makes me want to tear out my own heart?

A thud rings through my earpiece as she drops to the floor, vanishing beneath the window frame. One minute bleeds into five while I grip my tablet, willing her to reappear. When she finally rises, her movements remind me of a frightened bird—precisely focused but somehow erratic. She stumbles once, catches herself against the wall, and then bolts toward her bedroom.

“No, no, no,” I mutter as the curtains snap closed with a harsh swoosh.

I swipe to the bedroom feed on my tablet, shaking my head at the sight. Back and forth she moves, ten steps one way, pivot, ten steps back. Her fingers tangle in her chestnut hair, pulling it into wild disarray. The hidden cameras pick up every detail in crisp HD—the thundering pulse visible at her throat, and the shallow gasps that part her lips. Every few seconds, she whips around to stare at the windows, then the door, then back again.

“What are you thinking?” I whisper to the screen. Why did I reach out to her tonight? I’ve been able to suppress the urge for ayear. I suppose it was because I’d been in close proximity to her today.

She pauses mid-stride, wrapping her arms around herself. Even through the digital feed, I can see her trembling. No wonder she’s afraid.

My mind drifts back to that night a year ago when I first intervened. The sound of her ex-boyfriend’s fist connecting with her flesh, and her terrified face in the streetlight. The satisfying crunch of my knuckles against Stephen’s jaw, followed by other parts of his body.

The memory of her standing there, shaking but brave, ignites something primal inside me. Since that night, I’ve dedicated myself to keeping her safe—even if she doesn’t know it’s me. The cameras, the security upgrades, and the “chance” job offer—all carefully orchestrated to bring her closer, to protect her.

Through the digital feed, I watch Jenny collapse onto her cream-colored duvet, her phone pressed against her chest like a shield. Her mascara has left dark smudges beneath her eyes, but the rapid rise and fall of her chest has finally slowed to a steadier rhythm. She stretches one trembling hand toward her nightstand, wrapping fingers around her silver laptop.

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