Obviously this isn’t sustainable—I can’t exactly quit my job to become a full-time surveillance goblin—but for today, I’m glued.
So far? No sign of him. Which means one of two things. He’s following Darcy…
Or he’s prepping his murder dungeon.
Maybe I’m catastrophising.
Maybe not.
Is she going to end up shackled in his basement, forced to wear collars and call him ‘Master’? Or is he just one of thosefreaks who gets off on shadowing someone’s life like a tragic understudy?
The possibilities are endless.
And terrifying.
And weirdly cinematic.
But one thing’s certain—I’m in deep now. There’s no turning back, no ignoring the gut-churn of needing to know more.
I will figure this man out. Every detail, every crack in that sexy armour.
Most of the day is spent snacking like a stressed raccoon and frantically Googling ways to legally extract data from a stranger. Spoiler—it’s slim pickings.
Spyware? Off the table.
Tech contacts? Non-existent.
Re-entering his house under a different alias? Yeah… no. My face has already featured in the pilot episode of this operation.
So, it’s back to basics.
The good old-fashioned method.
Legwork. Eyes open. Shadowing him like a ghost.
I’m not stalking. I’m investigating.
Totally different.
I nearly scald the roof of my mouth on the tea—freshly brewed, still steaming—when that sharp, unmistakable bleep breaks the quiet. Movement alert. My heart skips before instinct takes over.
I grab my laptop and swipe into the feed, and there he is.
Well, half of him.
The camera’s angled too low, annoyingly so—his face cut off clean at the nose. Brilliant. Rookie mistake. I should’ve known better. I’m used to short arses like myself and angled it for eye-level. His eye-level, clearly, is a storey up from mine.
I mutter something low that even the steam rising from my mug can’t muffle. The tea scalds my tongue, but I barely notice. My gaze remains fixed.
He moves with an edge that betrays more than mere restlessness. His tall frame cuts across the room in measured, deliberate strides, wrapped in a fitted black t-shirt that clings to every flex of muscle. Each step is fluid, but there’s a tightness in his shoulders, a tension coiling through his spine like a compressed spring on the verge of release. He’s not aimlessly pacing. He’s calculating. Listening. Reacting to something invisible—an internal signal I haven’t yet deciphered.
So no, I can’t see his face, but I can see something just as telling.
And anyway, it’s not the way he looks I care about. It’s what he’s saying. His voice is urgent, just barely within the mic’s pickup range—and every word might be a thread I can tug at.
This is it. Spill your secrets stalker boy, I’m playing you at your own game now.
“Yeah, I know… once they’re here, I’ll be ready… no, I don’t need them, I’ve got everything under control.”
