Chapter Twenty-Two – Every Time She Looks at Me
1717 Words
Luca’s POV
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She didn’t run.
That was the first thing I replayed when the garden went quiet and the wind stilled.
Not her silence.
Not the trembling breath she took when she looked at the table.
Not even the way she wore the necklace I left her—like it belonged there.
It was that she didn’t run.
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She could’ve turned around the second the elevator doors opened.
She could’ve pretended not to see the envelope, left the key where I left it, kept her distance.
She didn’t.
She stepped into the garden like she was walking into the mouth of a storm.
And she didn’t flinch.
Not once.
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I hadn’t touched her.
Not really.
A hand at her elbow.
A brush of fingers.
The necklace.
That was it.
But I didn’t need to.
Not yet.
Because the way she looked at me told me everything I needed to know.
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She wasn’t afraid of me anymore.
She was afraid of what she wanted.
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That distinction mattered.
Fear could be managed.
Desire had to be earned.
And I would earn her.
Not with lies.
Not with pressure.
With presence.
With precision.
With patience sharpened by obsession.
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I stayed in the garden long after she left.
Drank the rest of the wine.
Untouched food still on her plate.
Her perfume still clinging to the air.
And thought of every single second we’d shared.
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The way her eyes darted to my mouth and back again.
The way she stood when the tension grew too thick.
The way she couldn’t say the words I already knew lived inside her:
“I want you.”
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She didn’t have to say them.
Her body did.
Her pulse.
Her breath.
The way her fingers brushed the charm on the necklace like it already meant something.
It did.
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That lock around her throat?
That wasn’t a gift.
It was a declaration.
And when the time comes, I’ll wear the key.
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Back in the penthouse, I undressed slowly.
Poured a second glass of wine I didn’t finish.
Stood in front of the window and watched the night breathe across her side of the city.
The lights.
The blur of movement.
And somewhere, on the third floor of that broken building—
She was thinking of me.
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I didn’t need to guess.
I knew.
Because I’d placed myself so firmly in her mind she wouldn’t be able to close her eyes without seeing me.
That was the point.
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Obsession isn’t always loud.
It can be quiet.
Subtle.
Deliberate.
A rose in her locker.
A shift in the lighting when she enters a room.
The exact song she used to hum once as a child playing softly in the background of the cafe she thinks she chose on her own.
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I would become her comfort.
Her fear.
Her rhythm.
Her interruption.
Her constant.
Until she stopped trying to resist me.
Until she didn’t want to.
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I turned from the window, picked up my phone, and called Nico.
He answered on the first ring.
“I need someone full-time on Logan Barrett.”
“Already done,” he said. “Rico’s on it. Rotating shifts. Eyes from morning to night.”
“I want a psychological profile. I want to know what he dreams about. What he eats. Who he’s most likely to call when he panics.”
“Got it.”
“And if he breathes near her again—”
“I’ll know.”
I nodded.
“Also…”
Nico waited.
“I want her routine monitored. Closely. But invisibly.”
“You want a full shadow on her?”
“No. I want something softer. I want her to start feeling safe.”
“Safe?” Nico echoed, confused.
“Yes,” I said. “Because no one has ever given her that. Not really. She doesn’t even know what it feels like yet.”
“And you think you do?”
“I know I do.”
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When I ended the call, I walked to the shelf behind my desk and opened the drawer with the velvet box inside.
Not the one with the ring.
That was for later.
This one held something smaller.
A charm bracelet.
Six delicate loops.
All empty.
Except one.
A white rose carved from bone and dipped in silver.
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The rest I’d give her over time.
Milestones.
Moments.
Each charm a symbol of the parts of her I’d claimed.
The first kiss.
The first night she begged.
The day she said she was mine.
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She wouldn’t wear it right away.
But she would eventually.
The same way she’d worn the lock.
Hesitant.
Uncertain.
Then desperate to never take it off.
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That was the difference between what Logan had done to her and what I was doing.
He’d tried to take her by force.
He’d tried to shrink her.
Make her feel small enough to control.
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I didn’t want to make her smaller.
I wanted to wrap my hands around her and build her into something bigger.
Louder.
Stronger.
So when she stood beside me, the world would know exactly what I’d bled for.
What I’d waited for.
What was mine.
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I walked into the bathroom, let the water run hot.
Let steam curl around the glass like breath.
And stood beneath it until the heat burned the night off my skin.
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But it didn’t wash her away.
It couldn’t.
Because she was already inside me.
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And every time she looks at me…
She knows.
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She entered the building at 6:43 a.m.
Exactly seven minutes earlier than usual.
Her steps were slower.
Her shoulders drawn tighter.
She pressed the elevator button with the same hand that wore the lock I gave her.
That mattered.
She hadn’t taken it off.
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I watched from my office.
Not in person. Not yet.
Through a screen.
Muted audio. Three camera angles.
Security feed filtered through an encrypted relay that only two men on my payroll could trace.
One of them was me.
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She stepped into the staff corridor.
Paused.
Her brow furrowed.
The light above her locker had been adjusted.
Softer now. Warmer. No more flickering.
She tilted her head like she was trying to figure out if it was new… or if she’d simply never noticed before.
Then she opened the door.
And found the charm.
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I zoomed in.
Her hands stilled.
Fingers brushing the tiny object nestled beside her ID badge.
A single glass bead—hand-blown—swirled with deep rose gold and silver dust.
No tag. No message.
But she knew.
She didn’t smile.
Didn’t react at all.
Not outwardly.
But her hands trembled slightly as she held it.
And then she tucked it away like it was something she didn’t want anyone else to see.
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That was the second gift.
There would be more.
Each one a thread.
Each thread pulling tighter.
Not a leash.
Not a chain.
Something she’d choose to wrap herself in.
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At noon, she moved through the cafeteria like always.
Same tray. Same order. Soup and salad. Half an apple she never finished.
But when she reached the counter, the cashier shook her head.
“It’s covered.”
Emilia blinked. “What?”
“Already paid for. Guy in the grey suit. Said you dropped your badge yesterday.”
Her eyes searched the crowd.
There was no grey suit.
Just strangers.
And Lizzy waving from the corner.
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She didn’t ask questions.
Didn’t make a scene.
Just took the tray.
Sat in the far corner.
And ate in silence.
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I watched the whole thing.
Three floors up.
Hands in my pockets.
Cameras weren’t necessary for that part.
Because I didn’t want a screen.
I wanted to see it with my own eyes.
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She sat differently now.
Still tucked into herself, yes—but less hidden.
Less ghostlike.
She stirred her soup absently.
Pulled her cardigan tighter around her.
Her fingers brushed the lock at her throat twice in the span of a minute.
I counted.
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This is how you rewire someone.
Not through fear.
Through repetition.
Through comfort.
Through belonging.
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She stood to leave.
Turned toward the hallway.
And paused.
Her head tilted.
Eyes scanning the shadows.
She couldn’t see me.
I was too far.
Too careful.
But she felt me.
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That was the beginning.
Of everything.
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I stayed out of sight.
Let her walk back to the kitchen.
Watched the way her fingers grazed her stomach as if soothing an ache she didn’t understand.
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Later that night, I sent the third gift.
Left it inside her locker while the lights were dimmed for after-hours cleaning.
A pen.
Plain.
Elegant.
Weighted.
The same kind she used to write in her journal—the one she thought she hid from me beneath a loose floorboard in her apartment.
I’d had it engraved.
I see you.
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No name.
No note.
Just that.
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She would find it the next morning.
And wonder.
And guess.
And want.
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Because this was no longer about touch.
It was about presence.
About letting her feel me in every breath, every silence, every echo of a moment she couldn’t explain.
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I would not chase her.
I would surround her.
Until the world outside of me didn’t make sense anymore.
Until the only thing that did—
Was us.
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And when she finally said my name…
When she finally turned to me and said, “Please”—
I wouldn’t touch her like a man touches a woman.
I’d touch her like a god touches his altar.
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Because she already belonged to me.
She just hadn’t admitted it yet.
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I returned to the feed later that evening.
Watched her walk through her apartment.
Watched her stop by the mirror and lift the chain from her neck.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then whispered something I couldn’t hear.
Didn’t need to.
Because her expression said it all.
She didn’t feel alone anymore.
She felt watched.
But not afraid.
Protected.
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She didn’t understand the difference yet.
But she would.
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And soon…
She wouldn’t want to run.
She’d beg to stay.
- Writer
