Six months of watching her pretend.
Six months of controlled routines and careful performance.
Six months of her trying to convince herself—and me—that she's moved on.
And it took one scripted date with a trust fund pottery boy to shatter the entire illusion.
She's thinking about me again.
Screamingabout me again.
Saying my name like a curse she can't stop speaking.
The pretending is over?—
A sharp knock on my window.
I turn my head and actually laugh.
She's here. She found me.
She knocks again, harder this time. "I know you're in there, you sick fuck!"
She found me.
She found me.
I lower the window.
And sheexplodes.
"You sick fuck—you absolute piece of shit—you think this isfunny? You think watching me lose my mind on a public street isentertainment?"
The words pour out of her like water from a broken dam. No filter. No performance. Just raw, uncut fury.
"Stalker—predator—manipulative psychopath—you killed someone, youmurderedsomeone and jerked off on their corpse and Isawyou and you think—you actually think?—"
She's not making complete sentences anymore. Just fragments. Shrapnel.
"—that I'd want anything to do with you after—after everything you—controlling freak—obsessive—insane?—"
My cock is already hard.
Not just hard. Throbbing. Aching. Straining against my zipper while she calls me every name she can summon from whatever dark vocabulary she's been building during six months of pretending I don't exist.
"—pathetic excuse for a man who has tobuywomen because no one would ever willingly?—"
I open the door.
She jumps back, mid-rant, eyes going wide.
I unfold myself from the driver's seat, standing to my full height. She has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact, and I watch her throat work as she swallows.
But she doesn't stop talking.
"Don't you dare—don't you fucking dare come near me, I will scream, I will call the police, I will?—"
I lean down until my lips are at her ear.
