Page 298 of Rosetti Family New York
"Hermès Calèche. 1961. Your grandmother's signature scent." His smile is soft, almost shy. "You mentioned it once. Said smelling it made you feel safe."
The bottle had appeared on my hotel dresser like magic. Impossible to get, worth more than I made in half a year, with a note that simply said 'For safe dreams.' I'd worn it every day since, never knowing where it came from.
"That was you."
"That was me."
The screens show evidence of other gifts. Books in hotel rooms, meals mysteriously paid for, suspicious men arrested before they could reach me. A guardian angel with tech skills, watching over me from the digital shadows.
"This level of surveillance, of... obsession," I breathe, though I'm not sure.
"This level of love," he corrects simply. "Adjusted for the fact that the woman I love specializes in becoming invisible."
The way he calls surveillance devotion makes warmth coil in my chest. This is how Stockholm syndrome starts.
But I need to see it all before I can begin to understand what it means.
"The closet upstairs," I say, feeling my suspicion grow. "You said you kept everything." His face shows both excitement and vulnerability, like a predator revealing the man inside. "Would you like to see?"
The question means more than just curiosity. It's an offer to see how much he cares, to understand the kind of shrine he's created around my memory.
"Yes," I whisper, deciding even though every logical thought warns me against it. He takes me upstairs with careful steps, like a curator about to show a masterpiece. The bedroom looks just like it did yesterday, but now I see it differently, not just as luxury, but as a recreation. A reconstruction of comforts that might make me want to stay.
The closet door opens quietly, revealing a space that takes my breath away. It's not just clothes. It's a museum of my life. Clothing racks line the walls, not just random outfits, but copies of everything I've worn in recent years. The red dress from Prague, the blue coat from Vienna, even the jeans I wore the night I left him, all cleaned and cared for with devotion.
"How?" I say, my voice breaking.
"Surveillance photos gave me references. I had specialists recreate everything." His voice has pride and maybe a bit of embarrassment. "Every fabric, every detail, every change you made. Exact replicas of your life."
I walk further in, touching silk like the gown I wore to a gallery opening in Paris, cashmere like a sweater I bought in Rome. It'snot just my style; these are my pieces, rebuilt from memory and obsession.
At the center, like sacred treasures, hang the clothes from our last night together. The black dress I wore to dinner, the lingerie underneath, even the shoes I kicked off by his bedroom door. They're years old but in perfect condition, waiting for me to come back.
"You kept everything," I whisper, touching the fabric that holds years of quiet hope.
"I told you I would wait for you to come home," he says softly. "This was how I waited."
This… this is…
"I need to think."
"Of course." He steps aside, letting me pass without pressure. "Take all the time you need. The balcony offers privacy."
I hurry toward the promised air, leaving him standing with the evidence of years spent loving my memory. The balcony stretches beyond the large glass windows, offering wide views of a city that suddenly feels distant.
The March wind cuts through the silk, clearing my thoughts enough to process what I've seen. Not just watching, but building a shrine. Not just observing, but loving from a distance that must have felt like dying every day.
He recreated my whole world in case I returned. He studied me so well that he knows my mind better than I do. He protected me from dangers I never knew about while respecting my independence enough to stay away.
This isn't just obsession. It's the kind of love that builds great things, changes reality, and refuses to accept defeat.
The scary part is how right it feels. How natural. How perfectly he's anticipated every need I didn't realize I had.
10
Mara
I've been his prisoner for four days, locked in this penthouse-shaped shrine, wondering if he'll ever let me go. The worst part is, I'm setting in. Getting accustomed to my captivity, and sleeping like a baby. Sitting on the balcony, surveying the park far below me, I feel relaxed.
