Page 8 of Gunnar

Everything erupts at once, both voices talking over each other.

“What happened?”

“Dev?”

“What do you mean, inside?”

“Last night’s flowers… They’re in my kitchen.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jake exclaims.

“That’s it,” Leslie huffs. “You’re hiring protection. Full-time residential security. I’m not negotiating on this, Devyn.”

I lean against the island heavily, the edge digging into my hip. Part of me wants to argue, to insist I can handle this. But the other part of me knows she’s right. “I already planned to,” I lie.

“Good.”

Jake exhales heavily, the sound carrying through the speaker. “Look, Dev… not to minimize this⁠—”

Leslie makes a disgusted noise. “Then don’t.”

“I’m not.” He pauses before continuing, choosing his words carefully, “But every celebrity at your level deals with fans. Overzealous ones. It’s part of the territor⁠—”

Leslie cuts him off, her voice hard as steel, “Fans are fine. Fans send letters. Fans wait outside restaurants.” Her voice turns harder, each word precise and weighted. “This is not a fan. This is not okay.”

She’s right. This stopped being a fan a long time ago. Fans don’t leave photographs outside your home in the middle of the night. They don’t violate your privacy. And they sure as hell don’t recover gifts from your trash and place them on your kitchen island with creepy-ass love notes attached.

I look around the room suddenly—really look at it—and everything feels contaminated. How did he let himself inside? Was I home? Where else did he go? How long was he here? Was he watching me sleep? The thoughts cause bile to rise up my throat. I gag, my stomach heaving as I empty its contents into the sink.

“Devyn?” Leslie’s voice softens, becoming the one she uses when I’m falling apart and need to be held together. “You okay?”

No. Not remotely. Not even close.

“Yeah… I’m okay.” The lie is so poorly delivered, they should probably revoke my Oscar.

“I’m sending Sarah the names of some security firms. The best. Discreet, professional, experienced with high-profile clients.”

“Okay.”

Jake clears his throat, the sound awkward. “Until we find a detail and get them in place…”

I look at the card by my feet. “Yeah?”

“I am more than happy to come over. Whatever you need. Just say the word.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience⁠—”

“Stop. You are anything but an inconvenience.”

“It’s okay. Sarah is here. I’ll lock the doors, set the alarm, and start calling these companies.”

His tone lightens. “If you change your mind⁠—”

“I know.”

After ending my call with two of them, I carefully pick up the card from the floor and place it on the counter. I read the words again and realize that it’s not just his presence that scares me. Though it definitely does. What has me terrified is the unwavering conviction in his deranged belief that he loves me and that we’re meant to be together that has me terrified. Delusions don’t bend to reason, and I don’t know how far he’s willing to go when reality refuses to match the story in his head.

The conference room overlooking downtown Chicago is already occupied when I arrive. The floor-to-ceiling windows frame a city still wrapped in the grayish-blue dawn haze. Jagger is sprawled in one of the leather executive chairs like it’s a Lay-Z-Boy, still half asleep. Damon, his hair still wet, is sitting beside him with a large coffee. Neither looks particularly happy to be here at this hour. I can relate.