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.
