It started with little things. I told myself they were coincidences, harmless accidents, small lapses in judgment—but deep down, I knew better. Zaria was everywhere, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was always one step ahead.
At first, it was subtle. A text that looked like it came from Adrian, directing me to a café to “talk,” only for me to find the place empty. A “chance” encounter on the jogging path he sometimes frequented—except he had been in meetings all day. Each time, my pulse would spike, my stomach twist into knots, but I kept my composure. I told myself it was just paranoia. That I was overthinking.
I shouldn’t have ignored the little warnings.
That evening, a week after the confrontation in his study, Zaria called me. Her voice was soft, apologetic, dripping with
