His breath stilled.
It wasn’t a book.
Chapter 15 Let Me Eat You
It was an album.
Photographs.
Of him.
Alexander shifted his grip, now holding the album with both hands as he opened it properly. The first photograph looked like it had been taken from a table display or a webpage. Some were clearly press photos—clean, sharp, familiar. Others were candid—captured from screens, newspapers, websites, moments frozen without his awareness.
Page after page.
His image stared back at him.
Under the first photo, written neatly in familiar handwriting, was a short note:
‘I met Mr. Graves today. He looks like a really nice man. He asked me to stay at his home. I hope I can return his favor one day and repay him for his kindness.’
Alexander’s fingers tightened around the album.
His chest felt strangely tight, as if something invisible had wrapped around his heart and begun to squeeze. As he reread the words, his heart sank further.
He turned the page.
Another photograph of himself appeared—more candid this time, taken just a few days after Mia had moved into his house.
Beneath it, in her familiar handwriting:
‘I agreed to marry Mr. Graves.’
His breath stalled in his chest.
Alexander flipped the page again.
This time, the photograph showed him in the black suit Mia had personally chosen for him. Beside it was another picture—several velvet boxes laid out neatly, each holding a wedding ring he had bought for her.
Underneath, she had written:
‘So many wedding rings? I’ll wear them all, and look like a queen.’
The corner of Alexander’s lips curled unconsciously, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. But then his gaze dropped to the line written beneath it—and his smile widened even more.
There were countless photographs of him, taken on random days during the time she had lived in his house. Some were blurry. Some were taken from afar. Some were clearly snapped when he wasn’t looking.
Beneath each photo were small notes—simple, warm words.
There were even pictures of Anita and Allen, playful comments scribbled beneath them.
One photo of Anita looked like it had been taken on impulse in the hallway. She stood with her arms crossed, posture rigid, chin lifted, her expression sharp and unimpressed—caught in the middle of what was clearly a lecture waiting to happen.
The caption underneath read, “Final boss of this house. Do not argue.”
Another showed her in the kitchen, sunlight spilling through the window, a ladle frozen mid-air as she turned toward the camera, eyes narrowed in warning. It was the exact look she gave when someone dared step in before tasting the food. Beneath it, Mia had written, “Scarier than Mr. Graves before coffee.”
On another page, one photo caught Allen mid-stride, phone pressed to his ear, jacket hanging off one arm, his tie loosened just enough to suggest it had been a very long day. His brows were drawn tight, attention split between whoever was speaking and whatever problem he was already solving.
