Vivian sat on her couch with the file in her lap.
The weight of it was obscene. Hundreds of pages. Six months of obsessive research compiled into a document thicker than most novels she’d read. The evidence of Alexander Kane’s fixation on her, bound neatly in a manila folder with her name typed on the tab.
She should burn it. Should throw it away without reading and pretend she’d never seen it. Should run as far and as fast as she could from a man who would compile something like this. Any rational person would.
Instead, she poured herself a glass of wine—the cheap kind she could afford, nothing like the expensive bottles he probably had in his penthouse—and opened it.
The first section was labeled “Professional Background.” Her entire work history laid out in excruciating detail. Not
