Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Copyright © 2025 by Laura Bishop

All rights reserved (i.e. back off)

No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, screenshot, telepathically transmitted, or otherwise stolen in any form—digital, mechanical, magical, or cursed—without written permission from the author. Brief quotes for reviews are cool (and encouraged, actually, hype me up), but if you try to pirate this book or repost spicy scenes on Wattpad… I will send a very tall, very fictional man to haunt your dreams. And not in a fun way.

Edited by Mara White, who debugged my prose like a pro and ensured the smut-to-plot ratio stayed within optimal parameters.

Cover by Momir at Proi Designs, who deserves hazard pay for translating my chaos into visual perfection.

Art by @imikuyya

CONTENT WARNING

This book may contain themes that are triggering to some. Reader discretion is advised.

For a full list of triggers, please visit:

https://laurabishopauthor.com/#content

For your vibrator

This book might edge you for 400 pages,

but you’re the real MVP who finishes the job.

CONTENTS

Playlist

He’s serving trauma with a side salad

Not My Business. I make It My Business.

If She Falls, I’m the Ground

Just Another Day in the Patriarchy

Dinner. Dessert. And Unrestricted Admin Access.

Wine. AI. Regret Coming Soon.

Protective. Confident. Intense. Me.

Now chatting with Caleb

It’s the forearm tattoos for me

I say Good Morning. She sends Filth.

The not-bread bread fiasco

He made her cry. I'm going to end him.

Now Chatting with Caleb

If You Think About It, It’s Amanda’s Fault

He Calls Her a Project. I Call Him a Corpse.

Did We Just Trauma Bond?

Someone better mop the floor

She Calls Me Comfy and I get Hard

Now chatting with Caleb

My Vibrator, His Abs, and My Shame

Parallel Parking Nearly Killed Me, But I’d Die for Her.

Please Hold While I Self-Actualize

She Has a Boyfriend. She Also Has My Mouth on Her.

Now chatting with Caleb

Self-Aware, Sexually Doomed, and Kinda Laughing About It

Pasta plus Existential Dread

Now chatting with Caleb

I’ve passed the point of no return and I’m fine with that.

I Should Have Left Sooner

He Unzipped His Pants. So I Unhinged His Jaw.

I’m Not Afraid When He’s Here

If It Takes Cameras in Every Corner, So Be It.

Now chatting with Caleb

Make Me Dinner or Make Me Come

She Licked It. I Saw God.

I Licked Him. Zero Regrets.

Keep Her Safe, Keep Her Close, Keep Her Mine

Amanda has zero filter

Now chatting with Caleb

Her Orgasm, My Obsession

He Took Leftovers. They Took My Sanity.

Every word she thinks turns her on has been mine.

Orgasms: 3 Sex: 0 Math isn’t mathing.

There’s No Version of This Where I Let Go

This Is Not In the Employee Handbook

Amanda Has a Glock in Her Gucci

I Don’t Cry over Monsters Anymore

Amanda has a body count. Probably.

I Let Him Talk. Then I Make Him Bleed

Turns Out Caleb Was Real All Along

I Say ‘I Love You’ Mid-Thrust

Now chatting with Callahan

Epilogue

About the Author

PLAYLIST

Greedy by Tate McRae

Feather by Sabrina Carpenter

Never Ending Song by Conan Gray

Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now) by C+C Music Factory

Give It to Me by Timbaland

You Broke Me First by Tate McRae

Up All Night by Khalid

Hot To Go! by Chappell Roan

Right to It by Louis the Child

Stupid Love by Lady Gaga

6s to 9s by Big Wild

HE’S SERVING TRAUMA WITH A SIDE SALAD

ISABELLA RUSSO

There are exactly three ways I know a date with Evan is going to be a disaster before we even sit down.

One: He takes a work call on the way there. It's not a quick, polite, Hey, I'll call you back in a bit situation. No, this is Evan in full corporate shark mode, barking into his Bluetooth like a hedge fund manager who just lost a million-dollar deal. By the time we arrive, he's already so deep in business-mode that I could shave my head at the table and he wouldn't notice.

Two: He insists on choosing where we go. In theory, this wouldn't be a problem if he had decent taste. But Evan's definition of "a nice place" falls into one of two categories: steak houses where the sides are extra and the clientele is 95 percent older men in Rolexes, or trendy fusion spots where the portions are laughably small and plated with a side of smugness. He once took me to a place where the "main course" was a single scallop on a plate decorated with edible foam. I left hungrier than when I arrived.

And finally, Three: He does the thing.

The thing where he barely glances at me the entire night, scrolls his phone like it holds the secret to immortality, then—just when I think he might actually engage in human conversation—he says a remark so colossally douchey that I have to remind myself that jail time isn't worth it.

Tonight, we've already hit all three.

I watch my reflection in the polished chrome elevator doors as we ride up to the restaurant, mentally preparing myself for disappointment. I actually put effort into getting ready tonight—a formfitting black dress that’s tight but doesn’t cling so much that it makes me self-conscious when sitting down, heels that pinch my toes and will have me limping in an hour, and hair styled in loose waves that were supposed to look effortless but are already losing the battle against the biting New York wind that whipped around me on the walk from the cab. I even put on red lipstick, a bold choice considering Evan once told me he doesn't like when I wear "loud" colors. I guess I was feeling rebellious.

I catch my reflection again and try not to fixate on how different I look now compared to when we first started dating. Three years and thirty pounds ago, I was the girl who didn't think twice about wearing form-fitting dresses. Now I'm the kind who strategically shops for clothes that hide the curves and softness that Evan has deemed "problematic."

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, releasing a wave of conversation, clinking glasses, and the rich aroma of seared meat and butter. The soft elegance of the restaurant unfolds before us. A hostess with a sleek ponytail gives us a practiced smile as we step forward. Before I can even speak, Evan's phone vibrates against his hip and he answers immediately.

"Yeah?" His tone is clipped and distracted as he motions for me to go ahead with a flick of his wrist, already absorbed in whatever urgent crisis the financial world has thrown at him.

I should've just stayed home, curled up on my couch with pasta that doesn't cost half my paycheck.

The restaurant is one of those overpriced steakhouses that thinks mood lighting means customers should barely be able to see their food. I blink repeatedly, adjusting to the low lighting as we follow the hostess to our table, my heels sinking into plush carpet with each step. We're surrounded by rich mahogany paneling, deep red leather booths worn smooth by years of expensive suits, and walls lined with backlit liquor bottles that cast amber shadows across old-money ambience. The air is thick with the scent of aged scotch and expensive cologne. If you squint, you can almost see the ghost of Gordon Gekko and his Wall Street cronies smoking cigars in the corner.

I slide into the cool leather of the booth. Evan sits opposite me. His phone stays out, screen glowing in the darkness between us.

This is fine. Totally fine. I love dating a man whose most stable relationship is with his notifications.

"So," I start, trying to salvage this evening before I lose my will to live. "I had my first meeting with corporate today. They went over the hiring budget for the new location⁠—"

"Huh?" Evan doesn't look up. He's scrolling, thumb moving with practiced efficiency.

I take a deep breath, and try again. "The hiring budget. For my new position."

"Oh. Right." He finally glances up, just long enough to give me the most half-assed, patronizing smile I've ever seen. "That's cute, babe. Store manager, huh? Next stop, CEO?"

That's cute, babe? I'm twenty-eight years old and just got a huge promotion I worked my ass off for, and the best he can do is “that's cute, babe?” As if I don't spend fifty hours weekly managing a multimillion-dollar retail floor, handling hiring decisions, dealing with vendors, overseeing loss prevention strategies, and balancing corporate's absurd expectations with store reality.

My grip tightens around my water glass, the condensation wetting my fingers. I'm one condescending remark away from drowning myself in this overpriced sparkling water.

Our waiter arrives—a tall guy with a perfectly symmetrical face and a smile that suggests he gets paid extra to flirt.

"What can I get for you tonight?" he asks, directing the question at me because, unlike Evan, he actually acknowledges my presence.

I open my mouth, the smell of a passing steak making my stomach growl⁠—

"She'll have the filet," Evan says, handing the menu over. "Medium well." His eyes focus on me, taking in the slight roundness of my arms exposed by my dress, before adding, "And just the salad for the side. No potato."

The message is clear as the crystal wine glasses on our table. I don't miss how he orders for me now, how my food choices have become specimens he monitors like my personal nutritionist-slash-warden.

Medium well with no potato. Evan just sentenced a perfectly good cut of steak to a slow, tragic death, and I'm being forced to witness it—and go hungry. I stare at the waiter, silently begging him to tackle my boyfriend to the ground and make me single. He hesitates, his pen hovering over his notepad, probably waiting for me to protest, but I just plaster on a smile and nod. Because, what's the fucking point?

The waiter disappears, leaving Evan and me alone, though I might as well be dining solo for all the attention he gives me. His phone is practically fused to his hand, the screen casting a dull blue glow over his features as he gets back to scrolling.

I take a sip of water, the ice clinking against the glass, trying to summon the energy to care. This is how our dinners go now—we sit together without actually sitting together. He's always half-distracted, half-busy, half-anywhere but here.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when Evan looked at me like he actually saw me, laughed at my jokes instead of just exhaling through his nose, and pulled me into his lap instead of leaning away when I tried to touch him in public. Back when I was lighter, when stress hadn’t driven me to late-night ice cream binges and comfort pasta. Back before his expectations and the relentless pressure of my job started carving themselves into my body—softening my once-flat stomach, rounding my cheeks.

I tell myself this is just a rough patch, that he still loves me, that he's just stressed—even though deep down, I know this is just who he is now.

I watch as he thumbs through Instagram, pausing briefly on a post before tilting his screen toward me.

"Damn, look at her," he says, showing me a photo of some influencer posing in front of a gym mirror, abs flexed, a slick sheen of sweat on her impossibly toned stomach. "She's been absolutely killing it lately."

His voice holds a hint of admiration he hasn't used for me in quite some time. I turn away from his phone, my appetite shrinking into a hard knot. He doesn't say “you should look like this”—he doesn't have to. The subtext is clear.

I glance down at myself, at my dress clinging too snugly to my middle, at how my thighs spread wide. I can feel the seam of my dress digging into my waist, a constant reminder of the body I now inhabit. Evan doesn't think I'm sexy, not the way I am now. I already knew this—he's been dropping hints for months, like casually mentioning an article about intermittent fasting or nudging a gym membership flyer toward me on the counter. Or now, showing me a woman he actually finds attractive and hoping I take the hint.

I set my water glass down too hard on the starched white tablecloth. Evan doesn't notice. He just keeps scrolling.

I watch his perfectly manicured fingers swipe at his screen, his Rolex glinting under the restaurant's lighting. He's the picture of finance bro elegance—Met Gala-level suit, slicked-back blond hair with not a strand out of place, sharp jawline that could probably get him a modeling contract if he ever decided to retire from emotionally neglecting his girlfriend.

Once upon a time, this was exactly the type of guy I wanted. When I was younger, I had a very specific idea of what my dream man looked like. And sure, it may be oddly similar to a specific Tiktok song, but I maintain I had the vision first: works in finance (with opinions about the stock market but doesn't make it his whole personality), trust fund baby (but one of the humble ones), over six feet tall (because obviously), and blue eyes (because I was shallow). Somehow, against all odds, I actually got him—the New York finance guy of my teenage dreams who quickly turned into a bit of a nightmare.

I should have known better. My mother tried to warn me, though not for the right reasons. If she'd told me he was emotionally unavailable, condescending, and about as warm as a marble countertop, maybe I would have listened. But her problem with Evan had nothing to do with who he was as a person and everything to do with the fact that after three years of dating, he still hadn't proposed.

Three years of fielding the same conversation at every family gathering with the same pointed questions: So, when are you getting married? Do you think maybe he's just waiting for you to say something? You're not getting any younger, Isabella.

My mother makes these digs sound casual, but I hear the real message underneath and feel it when she looks at me with concern, like I'm running out of time and should be worried too. I see how her eyes linger on my fuller figure, how she frowns slightly when I reach for seconds at Sunday dinner. She’s never said it, but I can feel it in her eyes: maybe if you lost the weight, he'd finally commit.

My three older brothers—Matteo, Luca, and Nico—have their own opinions about Evan. Nico, the youngest and most reckless, doesn't try to be subtle: "I could take him," he once said, straight-faced, over my mother's lasagna. "Just let me know when."

Matteo, the oldest who pretends to be above it all, just shakes his head when Evan's name comes up, like my entire relationship is some deeply unfortunate life decision that he's quietly choosing not to acknowledge. And Luca flat-out doesn't speak to Evan when they're in the same room, which would probably bother Evan if he weren't too busy being smug about "intimidating" my brothers.

I pretend not to care what they think, but I know they're right. This relationship isn't going anywhere. Evan doesn't love me the way I want to be loved. But I stay because the alternative means admitting I wasted three years of my life and facing the battle that would follow. Breaking up with Evan wouldn't just be breaking up—it would mean explaining myself to my family, dealing with my mother's worried sighs, my father's quiet disappointment, and my brothers' smug "I told you so" looks. It would mean proving them right.

So instead, I sit across from a man who barely acknowledges me, pretending this is enough, that I am enough.

But beneath all the reasons I tell myself I stay, there's one I never let surface—one that sits heavy and unspoken in my soul. The real reason I don't leave isn't my family. It's me, and the voice inside my head that sounds like Evan when we fight, when his frustration cracks through his perfect exterior and his words turn mean.

“You think you'll find someone better than me? Guys don't want a girl like you, Izzy. They don't want someone who doesn't take care of herself. Look at you—you're not the girl I started dating. I could be with someone who actually respects me enough to put effort into her body, but I'm with you. I choose you.”

That's the part that guts me most—somewhere along the way, I started believing him. Started believing that if I walked away, I wouldn't just be single. I'd be alone, because who else would want me? I work too much, I'm too busy, I don't have the slim body that makes men go wild or the effortless beauty that makes people stare. Not anymore.

Evan reminds me of that often, always sounding almost reasonable, like he's just trying to help, like he wants me to be better. And maybe I should want to be better. Maybe he's right. Maybe I should be grateful someone like him stays with someone like me.

What if it's true? What if Evan is the best I'll ever get? What if I leave and no one else wants me? What if this is my only shot at not ending up alone?

It doesn't matter because I'm not leaving. I already made my choice. I chose him, even if deep down I know he doesn't really choose me in return. The beginnings of a tension headache form, and internally, I groan. This dinner is supposed to be a celebration of my promotion, yet here I am, feeling smaller than ever.

Our food arrives with a waft of charred meat and herbs. Evan sets his phone down but still doesn't look up, his eyes darting between phone and plate. I visibly roll my eyes, not that he'd notice, and try to take a bite of steak with the texture of a hockey puck.

I glare at the pathetic salad on my plate, no dressing, no croutons—nothing that might make this punishment disguised as dinner remotely enjoyable. The bitter greens sit in sad contrast to the perfectly crisp, golden potato side on Evan's plate. Three years ago, we shared appetizers, ordered dessert, split a bottle of wine that left our lips stained purple and our laughter loose. Now I'm being fed like a reluctant zoo animal.

I clear my throat and sit up straighter, the fabric of my dress pulling across my chest, determined to salvage the night. "I spent half the day in an operations meeting about the seasonal inventory rollout. They're projecting a twenty percent increase in holiday foot traffic, so I need to finalize the hiring plan by next week and make sure the new associates are trained in time."

"Mmhmm." He's still scrolling.

"It's a logistical nightmare. The corporate team has ideas about maximizing sales, but they don't actually work in the store, so half of it isn't realistic. They want us to push high-end accessories at checkout, which sounds great except the only people who impulse-buy a $900 scarf are those who don't need to be upsold in the first place."

"Oh. Right." Clearly not listening, he pops bread into his mouth, dismissing me completely. The buttery smell wafts across the table, tempting me. His eyes trail over my plate, noticing I've barely touched my salad. "Not hungry?"

The way he says it makes my skin crawl—like he's checking to make sure I'm sticking to some unspoken diet plan we never agreed on.

I don’t bother responding. I glance around the restaurant at the couple next to us actually talking, laughing, engaging. The clink of their glasses as they toast mingles with the soft murmur of their conversation. The man leans toward his date, hands brushing over her bare arms, gaze full of admiration. When was the last time Evan looked at me like that? When was the last time I felt like more than background noise in his life?

I realize with a sinking feeling that it was around the same time my body started changing. As if his affection came with weight restrictions I hadn't been informed about.

I exhale slowly, the taste of disappointment bitter on my tongue, letting it go. I've learned not to push because he'll just act like I'm overreacting, too sensitive, too needy. I turn back to my plate.

And that's when I feel it—a shift, like the air around me has changed. A prickle of awareness runs down my spine, making the hairs on my arms stand up. I feel it before I even turn my head: that unmistakable pull of being watched.

Slowly, I glance up and lock eyes with a stranger across the restaurant. His features are striking—sharp jaw, dark hair, broad shoulders stretching his black dress shirt. He sits near the bar, one hand resting loosely around a glass of amber liquid, the other draped over his thigh.

As he shifts in his seat, something metallic glints at his collar—dog tags, peeking out from beneath his shirt. The sight sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. Military. There's a quiet authority to him that suddenly makes perfect sense.

He looks completely at ease, but his expression is focused. He isn't just glancing at me. He isn't distracted, like so many of the other men in this place, half-listening to their dates while checking the time or their stock portfolios.

No. He's fully, deliberately watching me.

His eyes don't waver or dart away when our gazes meet. He isn't embarrassed to be caught staring. If anything, I get the unnerving feeling that he wants me to know he's studying me, memorizing me.

A slow prickle of heat runs up my arms, raising goosebumps despite the warmth of the restaurant. I should look away, reach for my wine, shift my attention back to Evan, let this moment pass before it becomes a tangle I can't unravel. But I don't—because for the first time tonight, I feel seen. Not just acknowledged like when the waiter took my order, not glanced at like an afterthought between phone swipes. But really, fully seen.

And not in the way Evan sees me now—as a body that's failed him, a project that needs fixing, something lesser. This stranger looks at me without judgment, his expression filled with nothing but pure, undisguised interest. It's been so long since anyone looked at me like that, I’d almost forgotten how it feels.

My fingers tighten around my napkin, the fabric rough against my skin, as the moment stretches longer than it should. The silver chain at his neck catches the light again, drawing my eyes to the hollow of his throat. I wonder absently what name is stamped into those tags, what identity they represent.

The waiter arrives with our check, breaking the tension with the soft thud of leather on the table. When I look back, the man is still watching, but something in his expression has shifted. A realization. A question I don't know how to answer.

Evan clears his throat, tossing his credit card onto the table like he's doing the staff a favor. "You ready?"

His voice pulls me from whatever strange haze I’ve fallen into. I drag in a breath, fingers curling against the tablecloth as I hesitate.

"I was thinking about getting dessert," I say lightly. I don't know why—maybe I want a few more minutes here, to steal another glance at the stranger.

Evan scoffs. "You don't need dessert," he says with just enough amusement to sound like a joke but not enough to disguise what he actually means. The waiter returns with the receipt, and Evan slides his card back into his wallet, already moving toward the exit. "Let's go."

I press my lips together, tasting the remnants of my red lipstick, swallowing any protest, and force myself to nod with the same polite, agreeable smile that keeps the peace. Three years of letting Evan dictate what I should eat, how I should look, when I should speak. Three years of shrinking myself in every way except physically.

Inside the elevator, the air feels different—stagnant and still compared to the quiet clatter of silverware and low conversation in the restaurant. Evan stands a step ahead, scrolling through his phone like this is just another transaction he’s obligated to complete. He doesn’t notice I haven’t pressed the button yet, that my fingers are still hovering over the panel, frozen for reasons I can’t explain.

And then, before I can stop myself, I look up and catch one last glimpse of the man at the bar.

The doors begin to close on their own, sealing shut with a soft thud, leaving me staring at my reflection. My pulse runs faster than it should, thumping in my ears. My skin feels warmer than a second ago, flushed with a heat I can't explain.

He was still watching me.

And somewhere, deep in the part of me I don't want to acknowledge, I think I wanted him to be.