When I look back, he's gone.
The disappointment is crushing. Physical. I actually feel my chest constrict with it.
But I can still feel the ghost of his gaze on my skin, burning like a brand. My hands are trembling as I raise my champagne glass to my lips. My body is still humming with awareness, with a want so visceral it frightens me.
I scan the gallery for him, desperate for another glimpse of those eyes, that mouth, that powerful body. But he's vanished as completely as the masked stranger did.
Except I know—I know in my bones—that they're the same man.
And I know, with equal certainty, that he'll be back.
The thought both terrifies and comforts me in equal measure.
I leave the exhibition earlier than planned, unsettled and unable to focus on small talk. Unable to pretend anymore. The mysterious stranger has lodged himself in my thoughts, in my body. I can't shake the feeling that the encounter was significant somehow.
That he was significant.
That something inevitable has been set in motion, and there's no stopping it now.
The car service drops me at my building, and I take the elevator up to my floor, my mind still churning. Chen's cancellation, Bryce's public meltdown, the stranger's intense stare—it all feels connected, though I can't see how.
I'm so tired. So bone-deep exhausted. I just want to sleep for a week and wake up to find this was all a nightmare.
I unlock my door and step inside, and immediately know something is wrong.
There, on my dining table, sits a package.
My heart stops. Then starts again, racing.
I didn't order anything. I didn't give anyone permission to enter my apartment.
But there it is—a box wrapped in brown paper, tied with black ribbon.
I should run. Should call the police. Should call Lucy.
But my hands shake as I approach it, drawn like a moth to flame.
I untie the ribbon and tear away the paper.
Inside is a book.
Not just any book—a first edition of "The Odyssey," translated by Robert Fitzgerald. The exact edition, the exact printing, that Alex and I spent hours searching for in used bookstores when we were younger. We never found it. We joked that it was our holy grail, our impossible dream.
Our secret quest. Our private joke. Something we never told anyone because it was ours.
And here it is, in perfect condition, sitting on my dining table.
I can't breathe. My vision tunnels. This isn't possible.
I open the cover with trembling fingers. There's an inscription on the inside page, written in a hand I don't recognize:
"For Eve—some journeys lead us home."
A sob tears from my throat. I clutch the book to my chest and sink into the nearest chair, my legs giving out.
This isn't possible. No one knew about this except Alex. We never told anyone about our literary treasure hunt, our private jokes about being adventurers seeking ancient texts. It was ours, just ours. Something that belonged only to us.
So how does my stalker know?
