Without Your Persmission

Chapter 12: Warning

I stared at the words on my screen for a long time.

I prefer closeness too.

Eight syllables. As intimate as a breath. As damning as a confession.

I didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Even my heart, usually erratic in the face of him, slowed into something dangerous. Cold. Rational.

This wasn't paranoia.

This wasn't poetry.

This was intrusion.

And I had no proof. No fingerprints. No telltale scent or hair or camera feed. Just... presence. The unmistakable residue of someone slipping into my sacred, private obsession and marking it with their own.

I sat there in silence.

And then I closed the file.

Deleted it.

Emptied the trash bin.

But the imprint it left—that didn't vanish.

⸻

Morning

I didn't sleep. I painted.

If you could call it that.

I slashed a canvas open with a palette knife at 4:43 a.m.

Watched it split like skin.

Something primal unraveled in me. Something that had held on for too long.

I didn't cry.

I didn't scream.

I just worked.

Or more accurately, I warred.

⸻

By the time Naomi knocked on my door, I'd cleaned the blood from my cut finger and buried the ruined canvas behind my dresser.

"Aurora," she said, peeking in. "Arthur asked for you. He's bringing a few... guests."

My stomach twisted. "Now?"

"Ten minutes."

I nodded, heart thudding.

Guests. I knew what that meant.

And I knew who it might include.

⸻

Arthur's drawing room was something out of a mansion crime novel: heavy with velvet, tastefully overdecorated, filled with furniture that seemed too expensive to touch.

I didn't sit. I stood by the window, pretending to admire the view of the hills, hands clasped behind me to hide the tremor.

Then came voices. Footsteps.

And the door opened.

Alistair.

And—Alicia Crestwell.

The latter smiled like a razor blade disguised as lipstick.

Arthur gestured toward me. "You know Aurora, of course."

Alicia extended a hand. "We've met."

"No," I said flatly. "We haven't."

Her smile sharpened. "But I've seen you."

Exactly, I thought. That's the problem.

Alistair's gaze didn't drift. He stayed near Arthur, expression unreadable. He hadn't looked at me. Not really. But I knew he felt me.

Felt the burn in the air between us.

Felt the way my soul folded toward his like metal warped by fire.

I didn't speak. I didn't trust myself to.

Arthur, thankfully, filled the room with pleasantries and anecdotes about Craven's early partnerships with local artists, barely aware of the tension thickening around us like steam.

After the meeting, I slipped away before Alicia could corner me with her syrupy civility.

I walked through the sculpture garden alone. That was the idea, anyway.

But I heard her footsteps before she even spoke.

"You're quite the enigma, Aurora," Alicia said from behind.

I didn't stop walking. "I'm private."

She matched my pace. "Private is fine. But secretive? That's usually reserved for people with something to hide."

I stopped then.

Turned.

Faced her.

"You were gone for three days," I said. "Where were you?"

Her lips twitched into a smile. "I didn't realize I needed to report my whereabouts to you."

I stepped closer, not blinking. "You watch people."

"So do you."

A breath caught in my throat.

She leaned in, voice dropping. "Is that what you're afraid of? Being seen?"

I said nothing.

But I knew then.

Knew she wasn't just a coincidence. Knew she wasn't simply a girl in the right circles.

She was placed.

Or worse: she placed herself.

By the time I returned to my suite, Gretta had texted.

Gretta:

Heard you had tea with the Cravens and a surprise guest. Call me.

I did.

She picked up on the first ring.

"What the hell, Rory?"

"Arthur set it up."

"And you didn't think to mention that she'd be there?"

"I didn't know."

"You don't sound surprised."

"I'm not."

A silence.

"Aurora, please. You're not playing chess anymore. This is Russian roulette."

"I can handle myself."

"Can you? Because from what I hear, Alicia Crestwell has Arthur wrapped around her finger and a file on every resident."

I went still. "A file?"

"That's the word. She's an analyst, not an artist. Strategic partner, my ass. She's here to gather intel."

I exhaled slowly.

"And if she finds your obsession folder—"

"It's gone."

"That doesn't mean it didn't exist."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I'll handle it."

"You're not alone, you know. You don't have to burn for this man in silence."

I let her have that. Let her believe she'd reached me.

But deep down?

I wasn't burning for Alistair anymore.

I was fire.

I didn't sleep again that night.

I sat at the edge of my bed, staring at my reflection in the black mirror of my turned-off TV. Watching myself flicker and vanish in the faint light.

I imagined Alistair's room.

I'd researched it.

I knew which wing of the estate was his. I'd seen faint lights at odd hours.

But I never crossed the line.

Not physically.

Not yet.

Instead, I listened. Waited.

For what?

I didn't know.

Not until I got another text.

From a number I didn't recognize.

"She's not the one watching you."

My blood froze.

No name.

No context.

Just that.

I stared at it, heartbeat like static.

My fingers hovered over the screen. I didn't respond. I didn't delete it.

I just turned off the phone.

And curled into myself like a question with no answer.

⸻

There's a particular kind of silence that comes after you've been touched by something you can't name. It drapes itself over the hours. It nestles in the corners of your room. It finds you even when you hide from yourself.

After the anonymous message, my mind never stopped whirring.

She's not the one watching you.

Then who?

If not Alicia—then who?

I already knew.

I just wouldn't say it.

Wouldn't give it shape. Wouldn't give it breath. Because if I gave it form, it could destroy me. It could undo the delicate logic I'd constructed to live with this quiet sickness. The beautiful, curated madness I'd called obsession.

So I made coffee instead.

I wore lipstick.

I pretended to be human.

⸻

Gretta came by the next morning. She didn't knock, just barged in with her usual riot of energy and too-bright sunglasses.

"I had to see your face," she said, kicking off her boots. "You've been dodging me."

"I haven't."

"You're avoiding eye contact over text, Rory."

"I don't think that's a thing."

"It is when your periods are too measured."

I gave her a look. "You study my punctuation now?"

"I study you, Aurora. Because I care." She sighed dramatically. "So. Tell me. Why did you disappear after tea with the devil and her little lapdog?"

I set her coffee on the table. "Because I needed space to think."

"Liar."

I blinked slowly. "I've stopped obsessing, haven't I?"

"Oh, come on." She groaned. "I saw the way Alistair looked at you. You think that man just happens to appear at the same places as you accidentally?"

I didn't answer.

Because Gretta was usually intuitive—but never this close to the truth.

She rubbed her temples. "You promised me you'd try to get over him. Remember?"

"I'm trying."

She eyed me. "You always look like you're trying to stay inside your skin when you talk about him."

"I don't want to talk about him."

"I know. That's the scary part."

She changed the subject eventually.

Started rambling about a rooftop exhibit next month. One of those glittering, overpriced events that masqueraded as culture but was really just an excuse to drink Prosecco under fairy lights and pretend capitalism hadn't infected creativity.

She wanted me to join.

Arthur had endorsed it, of course. His connections smoothed everything. I suspected that's why Gretta brought it up in the first place—she knew I couldn't say no to something that might bring me closer to Alistair's world.

"I'll think about it," I said.

"Which means you're already calculating the outfit and your exact psychological effect on him."

"Maybe."

Gretta stilled. Her expression softened. "He's not the answer, you know."

"I know."

"Even if he looks at you like he's starving and you're the last flicker of light."

I didn't speak.

Because even if I knew it wasn't healthy, even if I knew it was dangerous, there was no denying the gravity of what pulled me toward him. It wasn't love. It wasn't lust.

It was recognition.

A mirror.

Warped and burning.

Later that afternoon, I returned to my studio alone. Naomi had left a folder of invitations on my work table—networking galas, a podcast interview request, a curator's dinner in the city.

I didn't even touch them.

What I touched was my laptop.

I hadn't turned it on since the message.

But it was time.

Time to reclaim the obsession before it unraveled me completely.

The desktop opened to a blank, peaceful wallpaper.

I clicked through. The timeline folder I had deleted was still gone. The message had vanished too.

No trace.

And yet... I didn't feel safe.

Because obsession doesn't require evidence. It only needs a door slightly ajar.

I opened a new file. A blank slate.

I wouldn't make another timeline.

No.

That was sloppy.

This time, I'd memorize it. Commit it to flesh and blood. Become the schedule. The map. The pattern.

I closed the laptop.

And walked out the door.

It was late afternoon when I arrived.

His usual time.

I didn't sit near the window this time. I sat by the back wall. Hidden behind the branches of a too-large plant. I had my sketchbook, a half-drunk espresso, and my headphones in—but no music playing.

I waited.

And then... I saw her.

Alicia Crestwell.

Leaning on the counter like she owned it.

Talking to the barista I'd quietly interviewed two weeks ago. Smiling like a serpent.

And then—Alistair walked in.

He didn't look at her.

He walked straight to the counter. Ordered the same thing he always did. A cortado with one shot of honey. Alicia tried to lean into his space.

He didn't give her the time of day.

But she followed him outside anyway, talking at him like a buzz that wouldn't stop.

And I?

I drew her.

I drew her face twisted into envy.

I drew her mouth, too wide when she laughed.

I drew the way her hand lingered too long on Alistair's wrist when she "accidentally" brushed it.

He didn't flinch.

But he didn't look pleased either.

It was only when they were out of view that I noticed the man across from me.

Staring.

I blinked, startled.

He was ordinary. That was the frightening part. Tan coat, a generic cup of tea, a newspaper open to the crossword. But his eyes weren't skimming the paper.

They were on me.

The moment our gazes met, he looked away.

But something cold threaded through me.

Not her.

Not Alicia.

Him?

Was he the one watching me?

Or worse...

Was he watching for someone else?

I packed up and left.

Didn't wait for them to return.

Didn't let the sketch dry.

I needed air. I needed silence.

But as I stepped out onto the pavement, something crunched under my boot.

Paper.

A folded napkin.

I picked it up, frowning.

Three words were written in blocky, masculine penmanship.

You should stop.

No signature.

No number.

No context.

Just another warning.