Page 296 of Rosetti Family New York
Sunlight pours through windows. Manhattan stretches out, a promise I can see but not touch. Forty stories below, people move through lives that don’t require bargaining for their own freedom.
I stretch, realizing I'm feeling well rested despite everything. When was the last time I slept eight hours straight without reaching for a weapon?
On the nightstand are things I didn't ask for: a glass of water at room temperature, vitamins I haven't taken in months. The thoroughness sends a chill down my spine. Clothes are laid out with precise care. Not the expensive ones from yesterday, but what I'd choose for comfort. Soft jeans in my size, a deep blue cashmere sweater that highlights my eyes, undergarments that fit perfectly even though he hasn't had a chance to check my size recently.
The bathroom shows more signs of careful planning. Not just expensive products, but my specific brands. The moisturizer I found in Prague, the shampoo I ordered from Tokyo, even theexact shade of lip balm I wore in Vienna six months ago. He's been noting my preferences with scientific accuracy. It feels like a museum exhibit called "The Life and Preferences of Mara Vale."
This isn’t a safe house. It’s a shrine built to contain me.
I dress and make my way out to the living area, a vast space filled with comfortable couches and warm sunlight. My stomach tightens at a familiar smell. Fresh croissants from the bakery three blocks from our old apartment. The same ones he used to bring me on Sunday mornings, still warm, with that flaky texture I said I loved just once.
But it's the coffee that makes me pause. I follow the scent and find him in a kitchen that looks like it belongs in architectural magazines, making breakfast with focused attention. The espresso machine is the same model from our old apartment, the one he said made the best crema. But next to it is something that makes me catch my breath—the specific blue ceramic mug I drank from every morning, the one with a tiny chip on the handle that made it uniquely mine.
"How?" I say before I can stop myself. He turns, dressed casually in dark jeans and a fitted sweater, looking like the man I once woke up next to rather than the one who's built this detailed shrine. The smile he gives is a mix of satisfaction and something almost shy.
"I kept everything," he says simply, as if keeping relics from a past relationship is completely normal. "Every piece that mattered. Every detail that made you feel at home."
"The croissants," I manage to say, though it's hard to speak with the tightness in my throat.
"From Laurent's. Still warm." He plates them with a care that's almost reverent. "You said they reminded you of mornings in Provence, before your life got complicated."
I never told him about Provence. Never mentioned the summers there as a child, how the bakery smell could take me back to feeling eight years old and safe. Yet he knows, has known and remembered, creating this perfect moment of comfort.
"Sit," he says gently, guiding me to the island where the place settings are arranged like a display. "Eat something. You've lost weight."
The observation is uncomfortably accurate. Years of always being on guard, never knowing where the next meal would come from, had worn away softness I didn't realize I missed. But he noticed. He remembered it. Made plans to fix it.
The coffee is just right. How I like it, with the exact ratio of espresso to steamed milk. The croissant melts on my tongue, bringing back feelings I'd tried to forget.
"This is impossible," I whisper, looking at his face to see how much he really knows. "You can't know these things. My preferences, my history, details I've never shared with anyone."
His gaze holds mine intensely. "I know you sleep six and a half hours when you feel safe, but never more than four when you're scared. I know you touch your collarbone when you're thinking about running. I know you've worn the same perfume since leaving because it was the last bottle I bought you."
Each observation makes me feel weaker. But it's the gentleness in his voice, not threatening but curious, that makes my vision blur with emotion I don't want.
"You counted my sleep cycles?"
"I counted everything." He moves easily around the kitchen, making food I didn't ask for but suddenly crave. "Your patterns, your tells, your needs."
His honest confession hits me hard. It's not just watching, but truly understanding. The line between stalking and devotion is the kind of attention that notices everything without judgment.
"Show me," I say, my mind made up as I look at his face in the morning light. "Show me what you know."
His face changes, surprise turning into a hunger that's barely held back. "You sure you want to see?"
"I need to understand what I'm dealing with."
He nods and goes to a panel in the kitchen wall that looks like regular cabinets until he touches it. Hidden systems come to life silently. Screens rise up, and keyboards appear on what seemed like marble.
"Voice activation is more convenient," he says, sitting next to me with care, "but sometimes the old ways feel more... intimate."
The screens fill with data that takes my breath away. Not just surveillance footage, but detailed intelligence files covering continents and years. Financial records, travel patterns, medical history, psychological profiles, everything about me, analyzed.
"Vienna," he says, fingers moving across the keys with ease. "October 15th. You spent four hours in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, but only looked at three paintings. The rest of the time you sat on that bench near the Vermeer, crying."
The screen shows security footage, grainy but clear. Me, in the blue coat I thought no one noticed, breaking down in public for the first time since leaving him. Sarah's birthday, though he couldn't have known that.
"You ordered tea instead of coffee for the first time in two years," he continues, showing receipts from the museum café. "Chamomile. You were trying to calm your nerves."
