Page 6 of Love Me Stalk Me
With triplets.
Which meant they weren't just an itemafterwe broke up. They were togetherwhile she was still telling me she loved me. While we were engaged.
I should have seen it coming. She used to get frustrated with how often I was gone, how little I could give her beyond phone calls and letters. She wanted stability, someone who could be there for her in a way I couldn't be. I used to tell myself that was fair. That I couldn't blame her for choosing someone else.
But that didn't stop the betrayal from sitting in my chest like a bullet that never got removed.
After that, I learned my lesson.
You don't put faith in something that can be taken away from you while you're halfway across the world. You don't put faith inpeople.
That's why this—this fixation brewing in my head over a woman I haven't even met—isn't right.
I don't knowIsabella Russo.
She has nothing to do with me.
So why the hell can't I stop thinking about her?
I exhale sharply, rubbing a hand down my face. I need sleep. I need to call my dad. I need to stop thinking about a woman who isn't mine to think about.
But instead, I sit in the quiet of my apartment, the ticking of the clock on my wall marking time, wondering if she's staring at the ceiling the way I am.
Wondering if, right now, she's lying awake thinking about me the same way I'm thinking about her.
IF SHE FALLS, I’M THE GROUND
CAL
Monarch is biggerthan I expected.
I knew it was high-end, knew the clientele would be the kind that doesn't look at price tags before handing over a black card, but still—this place is a fortress wrapped in designer packaging. Glass cases filled with jewelry worth more than my ride, handbags displayed like museum pieces, clothing racks curated like a gallery exhibit. Too much money, too many moving parts, and not nearly enough security.
Which is why I'm here.
I arrive early, dressed in black tactical pants and a fitted button-down, professional but functional. I take my time walking the floor before the store opens, watching employees set up displays, tracking the cameras, mapping out entry and exit points in my head. The steady airflow from the vents moves through the space, mingling with the quiet click of hangers and the soft padding of feet on polished floors. People notice me. A few nod in acknowledgment; others glance, then keep moving.
I don't care. I'm not here to make friends.
I check in with the security team first, go over their current protocols, assess the weak spots. Some of them have been here for years, others only a few months. Most of them are used to handling the standard stuff—shoplifters, a drunk VIP here and there, the occasional handbag disappearing during a private shopping appointment. What theyaren'tprepared for is organized retail crime, professional-level theft, or someone who knows exactly how to manipulate the blind spots in their system.
And from what I saw in the initial reports, that's exactly what's happening.
I'm scanning through a list of incidents when a voice pulls my attention.
"Callahan," Tom Reyes, my corporate contact from last night, claps a hand on my shoulder. "Come meet your store manager."
I alreadyknow who she is.
I knew before I stepped into this store, before my name was even on payroll.
Still, when I turn, when I finally see her up close in the daylight, it does something to me.
She’s different this morning. More composed. A fitted blazer skims her curves—flattering, not flaunting. Sleek heels echo across the marble with each step, her hair styled in loose waves that feel intentional, not accidental. A tablet rests under one arm while her free hand scrolls through schedules with practiced ease. Confidence clings to her now, a far cry from the woman I saw last night—small and silent beneath her boyfriend’s scrutiny. Here, in her world, she doesn’t shrink. She owns the room.
I wonder if she even recognizes me.
She doesn't react—not outright. But when she looks up and our eyes meet, I have my answer. A pause before she resets, that smooth professionalism sliding into place.
