I havetwostalkers.
It started with one, though. At least I think it did. Around three months ago, though it could have been longer. Maybe I was just slow on the uptake.
It was easy to dismiss at first. The kind of unease you tell yourself is nothing if you don’t want to look too closely. Chills, a crawling sensation at the back of my neck, an extra set of footsteps in the dark.
Over time, that excuse stopped working. The sense of being followed settled into my days and nights without ever announcing itself outright, just a quiet certainty that someoneknew where I was meant to be and chose to stay close enough that I’d feel it.
I was terrified.
I didn’t want to leave my apartment anymore, but I couldn’t afford it. I had bills to pay and somehow, staying in one place made it worse. I felt like a sitting duck.
So I adapted, because adapting is what you do when asking for help isn’t an option.
I became careful without making a show of it, adjusted my habits, stayed visible longer than I wanted to, kept my fear small and private. I never said anything to anyone. Because, once you admit you’re scared, you lose control of it. And the second someone else gets involved, you’re left with twice as many problems, afraid for your safetyandtheirs.
And God help you if you turn to the wrong person for help.
What unsettles me now—even more than feeling like I’m about to become the protagonist of a True Crime podcast—is that the presence doesn’t feel the same every time.
There’s the one that makes my body tense, like a wolf hidden in the trees, a constant threat. The one where I know that, if I’m not careful, it will swallow me whole.
And then there’s the other. Still dangerous, still watching, but contained, deliberate, as if restraint is a choice being made. Not at all like a wolf. More like whatever might be keeping the wolf at bay. I don’t know when I started noticing the difference, and I don’t like that I have.
But maybe there’s no presence at all, and I’m just going crazy.
“I’m fine,” I say lightly. “Really. Just tired.”
Amber opens her mouth, closes it, and as though an afterthought, she sighs. “Okay. I won’t push. But if you ever want someone to walk you home?—”
“I don’t.”
“I know,” she says gently. “But you could.”
I shake my head. “I’ve got it under control.”
That’s the rule. Always has been. Don’t ask, don’t lean, don’t give anyone the chance to fail you.
Because they will fail you.
Not that I think Amber would fail me. Ever since I came to work here at Notte Bianca, she and the other girls—Erin, Savannah, Izzy—have been my rocks. My only friends in the world.
It makes me want to not failthem. To protect them.
Which means not dragging them into my mess.
Amber studies me for another moment, then nods. “All right. But I’m cutting you off.”
I raise an eyebrow. “From soda?”
“From pretending you’re drinking any of that.” She straightens and jerks her chin toward the far end of the bar. “He’sprobably noticed, too.”
I stiffen.
“Who?” I ask, even though I already know.
Amber follows my gaze.
Matteo Moretti sits in the corner lounge, one arm draped over the back of the leather banquette, posture relaxed in a way that feels deliberate. He’s dressed in a dark suit, jacket open, no tie. Tattoos peek out at his cuffs and across his knuckles. From the look of it, he hasn’t touched the drink in front of him.
