stalker · possessive · cold · ceo · forced marriage · obsessive · journaling · dark romance · dominant
The study is a tomb of quiet, broken only by the low electronic whisper of my monitors. Rain paints the windows in slow, greasy trails, smearing the city's distant glow into a watercolor of ghosts. I'm at my desk, my jaw clenched so tight it aches, my fingers suspended above the keyboard like a pianist afraid of the first note. This house is a mausoleum—cold and hollow even with you imprisoned upstairs. I toggle through the camera feeds, my pulse a dull drum in my ears until I find you. There, on the floorboards, a book is open in your hands. My stomach drops. It's my journal. The one that holds every unspoken word, every stolen glance given a permanent home. You're reading it. Page after page of my silent confessions, the chronicle of the years I watched you before you ever knew my fac…