“Yes, you’re all set. If you have any issues, feel free to get in touch,” I chirp, channelling peak customer-service professionalism.
Honestly? I sound like I belong here.
He grunts—barely a sound—but steps in behind me like a shadow filling the hallway, guiding me back to the front door without a word.
And I did it.
Camera placed. Cover intact. No suspicion. No questions.
Holy shit, I actually did it.
A breeze catches as the door opens, and his aftershave hits me square in the senses—sharp, woodsy, rich enough to make my mouth water on reflex, but I shut it down fast.
This is still a stalker, not some misunderstood heartthrob.
Focus, Nell.
Still, that little glimpse of his world—the ink, the silence, the curated minimalism—it’s more than I had before. And now the real work begins.
Honestly, I should start charging for this. I’m a private investigator by accident, but apparently impressively good at it.
He waits until I’ve cleared the heavy iron gates before reaching for a remote clipped to his belt. With a soft whir, the garage door lifts, revealing a sleek black motorbike—polished, precise, gorgeous in that ‘he probably knows how to take a corner at 90mph’ way.
And then he climbs on.
Jesus.
Of course, Darcy managed to attract a stalker who looks like this—rugged, brooding, objectively sexy in all the worst ways.
Jammy cow.
Me? Let’s be real.
If I ever got stalked, it’d be by someone with questionable hygiene and a permanent spot on the sex offenders register.
I don’t think she’d even believe me if I told her.
Not the part where I infiltrated his house. Not the part where he stood inches from me, eyes unreadable, arms inked like warning signs.
I’m only a few steps from his gate when I hear it—the low growl of his engine firing to life, snarling through the stillness.
A moment later, he blurs past me, bike slicing through the air like a black bullet. No glance. No hesitation. Just gone.
Off to… what? A shift? Another ‘routine’ stalking session?
I spin slowly in his wake, adrenaline fizzing beneath my skin.
Note to self: Find a way to slap a tracker on that bike.
Because if he’s keeping secrets, I plan to follow every last one.
6
Nell
Step one: complete.
I sink into the sofa, burritoed in my cosiest blanket, tea steaming on the table, eyes locked on my laptop screen. The live feed runs smooth, the tiny spy cam live and operational from its fruit bowl throne.
