My Stalker
964 Words
CHAPTER THREE
Clara stood on the steps of her Brooklyn brownstone with one suitcase and a heart beating just a little too fast.
The town car idled at the curb—black, silent, gleaming like a promise.
She didn’t look back as she closed her apartment door for the last time. No nostalgia. Just resolve.
This is the next phase.
The drive to Ashworth Estate took forty minutes through winding coastal roads, each turn pulling her further from the world she knew. When the gates finally opened, revealing the house perched like a crown on the cliffside, Clara couldn’t stop the soft gasp that escaped her.
It wasn’t just big.
It was legendary.
Marble columns. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Gardens spilling down toward the sea like emerald waterfalls. She’d seen Ashworth House in corporate brochures, in society pages—but never like this. Never as someone who belonged inside.
A woman in a crisp navy uniform met her at the porte cochère. Mrs. Langley, the head housekeeper, her silver hair pinned severe, eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses.
“Miss Lin” she said, voice polite but cool. “Welcome. Mr. Damian instructed that you be shown to the Maple Suite—it’s separate from the master wing, as he requested.”
Clara nodded. “Thank you.”
She followed silently through hallways that echoed with history—portraits of stern Ashworth men watching her pass, antique clocks ticking like sentinels. The Maple Suite was at the far end of the west corridor: double doors, oak-paneled, brass handles polished to a mirror shine.
Inside, Clara stopped.
The room was larger than her entire Brooklyn home. A sitting area with a fireplace, a four-poster bed draped in ivory linen, a dressing room beyond, and—through French doors—a private terrace.
She walked to the window and pushed it open.
The view stole her breath.
The Sound stretched endlessly below, waves crashing against black rocks, the sky streaked with the last gold of sunset. It was wild. Majestic. Hers, for now.
She turned just as the door opened.
Damian stood in the threshold, still in his dark suit, overcoat gone, tie slightly loose. He didn’t smile. Didn’t soften. But his gaze swept the room, then her—assessing.
“You like it?” he asked, flat.
“It’s… more than I imagined,” Clara said honestly.
“Good.” He stepped inside, shut the door behind him. “We meet my grandfather tomorrow at Grantham House. Ten a.m. sharp.”
Clara’s pulse quickened. Silas Ashworth. Chairman Emeritus. Architect of the will. The man who’d built an empire on silence and suspicion. She’d read his memos, filed his old letters, even transcribed his rare public speeches. She knew he’d fired three CEOs for “emotional recklessness.” That he’d once said, “Sentiment is the first symptom of weakness.”
And she knew—he’d already looked into her.
“You’re aware he knows who you are,” Damian said, as if reading her thoughts.
She met his eyes. “Of course.”
“He won’t say it. Not yet. But he’ll test you. Watch how you hold your tea. How you address him. Whether you flinch when he speaks.”
“So what’s our story?” she asked.
“We dated quietly for eight months,” Damian said. “You’re the daughter of a linguistics professor at Oxford—deceased. You met me at a charity auction in London. You turned down my first proposal because you ‘didn’t want to be absorbed by my name.’”
Clara raised an eyebrow. “That’s… specific.”
“It’s what he wants to hear,” Damian said. “Now say it back to me.”
She took a breath. “We met at a charity auction in London. I’m the daughter of an Oxford professor. I refused your first proposal because I didn’t want to disappear into your legacy.”
“Good.” He paused. “Now say you love me.”
Clara didn’t hesitate. “I love you, Damian. Not for your name. For the man who stays late to fix what others broke.”
He tilted his head. “So tell me—what do you know about me?”
Clara didn’t hesitate. She spoke not as a secretary, but as the woman who’d just agreed to stand beside him as his future wife.
“You drink black coffee with two sugars—never cream. You take meetings standing when you’re stressed. You stopped wearing your father’s ring the day after the funeral.” She held his gaze. “You hate lettuce—say it feels like eating wet paper. You keep your office at 68 degrees because your mother believed cold minds stay clear.”
A pause. Then softer: “You pace when you’re thinking. You only laugh when you’re truly angry. And you calm down fastest when it rains… especially when you’re alone, watching it hit the windows.”
Silence stretched between them—thick, charged.
Then, dry as ash, Damian said:
“Christ. I know you’ve been stalking me like my life’s a true crime podcast.”
But his eyes lingered for a second too long. Not angry. Not amused.
Seen.
He turned toward the door. “Feel at home, Clara. You’ve clearly memorized the floor plan.”
He left without another word.
Alone, Clara walked back to the window, the sea wind cool on her skin.
She hadn’t meant to unnerve him.
She’d just told the truth.
But as the first stars appeared over the water, she wondered:
If he thinks I’ve been stalking him… does that mean he never noticed I was just paying attention?
And more dangerously—
What happens when the man who hates being known… starts knowing me back?
- Writer
