My Husband's Best Friend Is Obsessed With Me

15

JORDAN

I don’t know what I thought would happen after sending Nadia those flowers.

Okay, maybe that’s a lie. I expected something—a reaction, a flicker of emotion, a spark. Maybe anger that I’d dared to cross her invisible line after all her warnings. Or maybe, just maybe, a flash of excitement. The lady at the shop swore the bouquet I picked was irresistible—“A mix like this? She’ll melt,” she’d said, wrapping them with the kind of confidence that makes a man believe he’s about to make things right.

But it’s been days, and there’s nothing. No call. No message. Not even a curt “thanks.”

The silence feels heavier than rejection. It’s as if she’s erased me completely, and that thought claws at me.

At this point, I’d take anything. A text. A curse. A whisper that she still thinks about me.

That she misses me. Even half as much as I miss her.

I grip the steering wheel tighter and glance at the clock on my dash. 9:47 p.m. The world outside my windshield is a blur of streetlights and drizzle. I tell myself I’m just driving to clear my head, but that’s a lie too. My hands have a mind of their own, steering down the familiar turns that lead to her street.

By the time I pull up a few houses away, my pulse is pounding in my ears. Her building looks the same—quiet, washed in that faint amber glow from the porch light that never seems to die. I kill the engine and just sit there, watching.

Her curtains are drawn, but I know which window is hers. I’ve memorized the rhythm of her nights—the lights flickering on when she’s reading, the soft silhouette that sometimes moves past the blinds.

Nothing tonight. Just darkness.

I exhale, rest my forehead on the steering wheel, and let the guilt flood in. She told me to give her space. She said she needed to breathe without me shadowing every move.

And here I am. Parked like a fool on her street, waiting for a sign she probably has no intention of giving.

But walking away from her feels like walking off the edge of something I can’t live without.

I stay there longer than I should, the engine off, the night pressing in. My fingers tap the steering wheel in restless rhythm, my breath fogging the windshield. Every instinct tells me to leave before I cross another line I can’t uncross.

Then it happens.

The curtain moves.

Just a fraction—barely enough to notice—but my eyes catch it instantly. That subtle shift, like someone trying not to be seen. My pulse kicks up.

For a heartbeat, the fabric parts. I see the outline of her face, faint in the low light, her hair falling over one shoulder. Even from this distance, I know that shape, that tilt of her head.

Nadia.

Our eyes don’t meet—not directly—but it’s enough. She freezes, then the curtain snaps shut, the window swallowing her whole again.

I sit there, motionless. The night suddenly feels louder—the hum of crickets, the dull thud of my heartbeat. My aching breath.

She saw me.

And she pulled back.

That should be my cue to leave, but I can’t bring myself to turn the key. Because somewhere between that half-second glance and the drawn curtain, I swear I saw something in her—surprise, maybe even longing—before she hid it away.

And that’s the problem with Nadia. She never lets me see what she feels. She makes me guess, chase shadows, believe that maybe, just maybe, she misses me too.

I’m still staring at her window when my phone buzzes on the passenger seat. The vibration slices through the quiet. I check the screen—Tasha, my assistant.

I think about ignoring it, but Tasha’s pulling a late shift, and she wouldn’t call unless it mattered.

I swipe to answer. “Yeah.”

“Sir,” she says quickly, a bit breathless, “sorry to bother you this late, but you need to come in. Mr. Jake from Northgate called—it’s about the hotel contract. Says he’ll only speak to you directly. Something about an internal breach and a missing access code.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, a dull pulse throbbing behind my eyes. “Now?”

“Yes, sir. He says it can’t wait till morning.”

Of course it can’t. It never can.

“Fine. Tell him I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll keep the line open.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than before. I glance once more at Nadia’s window. Still. Closed.

It’s ridiculous how something as simple as a motionless curtain can gut a man.

I start the engine, headlights washing over her street. My car reflection flashes briefly in her window—then it’s gone as I roll forward. The tires crunch over the wet asphalt, the drizzle picking up again.

Back to duty. Back to the only world that still needs me.

But as the car turns the corner, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s still standing there, behind that curtain, watching me leave.

And somehow, that hurts more than her silence ever could.

By the time I reach the office, the rain’s coming down harder, streaking across the glass walls like veins of light. The place is mostly dark, just the hum of monitors and the low buzz from the overnight team in the surveillance room.

Tasha meets me at the door, tablet in hand, eyes tired but alert.

“Jake's been calling every five minutes,” she says. “He’s on line two.”

“Patch him through.”

I head into my office and shut the door behind me. The air smells like burnt coffee and gun oil — a mix that’s become too familiar.

The call connects.

“Jake,” I say, settling into my chair. “Talk to me.”

“Thank God,” he says, voice strained. “Someone tampered with the access codes at Northgate Hotel. My team can’t get into the control room, and the cameras on the east wing are stuck on loop. I’ve got guests checking in — this looks bad, man.”

I spin the monitor toward me, fingers already moving across the keyboard. “Alright. Relax. Give me your backup code.”

He rattles it off. I pull up the logs, scrolling through the last hour’s activity. There — a foreign IP, masked under a legit login. Amateur job, but bold enough to cause chaos.

“Okay, I see it,” I mutter. “Somebody inside your network tried rerouting your access. Probably to pull the footage or plant something. I’m cutting the line now.”

“Can you fix it?”

“I just did.” A few keystrokes later, the green status bar stabilizes, and the live feed flickers back to normal — a guard crossing the hallway, business as usual. “You’re clear. But you’ll need to run a full audit in the morning. Someone on your payroll’s playing dirty.”

Jake exhales loud enough for the mic to catch it. “You saved my ass again.”

“You’ve got a long list of IOUs, buddy,” I say, allowing myself a tired grin. “Get some sleep. And don’t mention this call to your staff — if it’s an inside job, they’ll panic.”

The office is dead quiet after Jake’s call. Just the hum of the monitors and the steady tick of rain against the windows. I should go home. I should sleep.

Instead, I find myself scrolling through old case files.

Then I see it — Russo. The file we shelved a month ago. I open it, and there it is, that encrypted message Eli flagged. A single line, one number. It had led to an offshore node tied to the Marino syndicate.

The same syndicate that’s been bleeding Jersey for years.

The same one that knows we’re the reason Russo’s still breathing.

My gut tells me it’s not over. The silence feels wrong — like the pause before a hit.

I pick up my phone and dial Eli. He answers groggily, voice low and rough.

“Boss? You still at it?”

“Always,” I say. “Thought I’d grab a drink. You in?”

He laughs, low and rough. “You don’t do drinks unless there’s a job attached.”

He’s not wrong.

I rub the back of my neck, glancing at the rain-slick streets outside the window. “Smart man.” I lean back in the chair, eyes still on the open dossier. “It’s about Russo. Remember that trace we found a month back — the one linked to Marino’s offshore node?”

“Yeah,” he says, his tone sharpening. “What about it?”

“I think it’s active again. Might be nothing, but I don’t like coincidences. Let’s hang out, check a few spots. See if anyone’s moving on it.”

“Got it,” he says, then pauses. “You sure this is about the case, boss? Or you just don’t want to be alone tonight?”

The corner of my mouth twitches. “Can’t fool you, can I?”

“Not anymore. It’s Nadia, isn’t it?”

Her name lands heavy. I stare at the photo on my desk — her smile frozen mid-laugh — before I can stop myself. “Yeah,” I admit quietly. “It’s been a month and it’s still loud in my head. Figured I’d get my mind off things before I start driving past her place again.”

Eli’s voice softens, but not enough to sound pitying. “You know, the guys still keep an eye out for her when you’re out of town. Nobody’s touched her, nobody’s watching her. She’s safe.”

“I know,” I say, though it doesn’t make the ache dull. “Tell them to stop doing that.”

“Sure,” he says. “Right after you stop thinking about her.”

I can’t help a small laugh. “Fair point.”

“So what’s the play?”

“Meet me at the Ridgewood diner. Bring the laptop. We’ll trace the sender, see if the Marino boys are talking again.”

“On it. I’ll pull Ty from the south sector — he’s got eyes on the docks tonight. Might come in handy.”

“Good,” I say, grabbing my coat. “Let’s move.”

When the call ends, I glance once more at Nadia’s picture. For a moment, I think about what it would be like to call her instead — to hear her voice, maybe just once more.

But some things you can’t fix with flowers or apologies.

Some things you drown with work.

I slip the photo facedown on the desk and walk out into the night.