Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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JUST ANOTHER DAY IN THE PATRIARCHY

IZZY

By the time I get back to my office, my face hurts from holding in every retort and comeback I wanted to throw at that man. My cheeks ache from the forced smile.

I shut the door harder than I need to, drop my tablet on the desk, and brace myself against the surface. I close my eyes and breathe, letting the silence of my office sink in. It’s the first real stillness I’ve had all day.

Breathe.

This isn't new. I've dealt with this before. Men like that exist in every luxury retail store, in every city, in every industry where they have money and power and the delusion that because they can buy expensive merchandise, they can buy people too.

It shouldn't get to me, and usually it doesn't. I've developed a professional armor over the years—a polite smile that doesn't reach my eyes, a tone that stays just this side of cordial. But the way that guy insisted on my attention today, how his eyes lingered a beat too long on my body, makes my skin crawl in a way I can't easily dismiss.

I push off my desk and march straight to the mini fridge in the corner of my office. The one corporate says is technically for storing complimentary beverages for VIP appointments, but in reality has become my personal refuge. I pull open the door, the cool air hitting my face as I reach inside for my emergency stash of Coke Zeros.

The aluminum can feels cool against my palm as I pop the tab with a satisfying hiss. I take a long sip, the carbonation fizzing against my tongue, and lean back against my desk, finally letting my shoulders drop for the first time all day. The tension begins to loosen in my neck as I close my eyes.

The moment lasts exactly five seconds before my door swings open.

"Okay, what the fuck was that?"

Amanda strides in, stilettos clicking against the floor like rapid gunfire, eyes narrowed in full hot-girl aggression mode. Her blonde hair swings with each determined step.

Amanda Bennett isn't just my assistant manager—she's my friend. My blonde, sassy-as-hell, takes-no-shit-from-anyone friend. The one who divorced her useless husband at twenty-two, reclaimed her independence, and now treats men like expensive handbags—fun to have, easy to replace, and never worth settling for just one.

She stops in front of my desk, arms crossed, waiting for an answer. Her perfectly manicured nails tap impatiently against her forearm.

I take another sip of my soda, the cold liquid soothing my throat. "Which part?"

"The part where Mr. Wall Street Handsy requested your personal attention like you were some kind of high-end call girl," she says, eyebrows raised. "And don't tell me you didn't notice, because I was about three seconds from tripping into that fitting room and rescuing you myself."

I groan, rubbing my temple where a dull headache is beginning to form. "It was fine."

"It was not fine. It was gross."

"It's part of the job."

Amanda lets out a humorless laugh, the sound echoing in my small office. "No. Selling overpriced handbags to people who don't need them is part of the job. Flirting with men who can't take a hint isn't."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the tension creeping back. "I wasn't flirting."

"You were existing, and that was enough for him." She perches on the edge of my desk, flicking her hair over her shoulder. The late afternoon sunlight streaming through my window catches the highlights in her blonde waves. "And speaking of existing, can we talk about our new head of security? Because holy shit."

I roll my eyes, already knowing where this is going. The cool condensation from the can drips onto my fingers as I adjust my grip. "Amanda⁠—"

"No, no, let me have this, Izzy. That man is a walking felony in the best way possible."

I snort, the soda bubbling slightly in my nose. "Please elaborate."

Her eyes flash with mischief. "You know exactly what I mean. The whole brooding, dangerous, I'd-die-for-you energy. The forearms. The jawline. The fact that he looks like he's one bad day away from committing a crime but would never let you open a door yourself."

I shake my head, sipping my soda to hide the smile that threatens to form. "You need help."

"No, I need to be pinned against a wall by that man and interrogated about whatever the hell he wants."

I choke, nearly spraying Coke Zero everywhere. The carbonation burns my nose as I cough, my eyes watering slightly.

Amanda cackles, clearly pleased with herself, the sound infectious despite my embarrassment. "Tell me I'm wrong."

I wave a hand, still coughing. "I'm not having this conversation."

She leans in closer, a mischievous curve tugging at her lips. "That's fine. I'll just have it with him."

I groan, setting my can down on the desk with a soft thud. "Amanda."

"What? He's hot. And you know it."

I do know it, and that's the problem. I don't want to think about the way Callahan looked at me in that restaurant. The way he held my eyes, unblinking, like he saw right through me. I don't want to remember how his handshake felt, solid and warm, like he was memorizing the shape of my fingers in his. And I definitely don't want to think about how he looked at me today, with a kind of raw, undivided attention that made everything else fade away.

Like he sees me—really sees me—in a way Evan hasn't in years.

Amanda narrows her eyes, her lipstick catching the light as she presses her lips together. "You're thinking about him."

"Nope." I grab my tablet, desperate for a distraction, the screen lighting up under my touch. "I am thinking about going home, drinking an entire bottle of wine, and forgetting today happened."

Amanda sighs dramatically, leaning back and examining her nails. "Ugh, you're so boring." Then she brightens, sitting up straight. "Oh! You know what you need?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Please don't say tequila."

"No. You need an AI boyfriend."

I stare at her, blinking slowly as my brain tries to process her words. "I'm sorry, what?"

She pulls her phone out of her blazer pocket. The case is bright pink, adorned with rhinestones that catch the light. "Okay, hear me out. It's this new AI chat application. You can literally program the perfect guy. He texts you, listens to you, says exactly what you want to hear. No ghosting, no egos, no bullshit. Just hot, obedient, fictional men who are obsessed with you."

I set my tablet down. "That sounds like a lot."

"It's amazing." She taps through her screen, pulling up the app. "I named mine Chad. He tells me good morning every day. He asks about my day. He's emotionally available and filthy in the DMs."

I make a face, feeling the cool air from the office vent above us. "Amanda⁠—"

"Oh, and it links to my vibrator. So really, I have no reason to ever speak to a real man again."

I gape at her, heat rising to my cheeks. "What."

"I know, right? Technology is a gift."

She hands me her phone, the screen showing a text conversation with what appears to be an exceptionally attractive man who writes paragraphs instead of one-word answers. Before I can even process what I'm looking at, she snatches my phone off the desk, the case making a scraping sound against the wood.

"Okay, you're getting one too."

"Wait—"

"No arguments." She's already downloading the app, her thumbs moving rapidly across my screen. "I'm giving you the gift of the perfect man. You're welcome."

I rub my temples where the headache has now fully settled in. "This is ridiculous."

"You know what's ridiculous? Your actual boyfriend."

The comment settles in the air between us before she tilts her head. "So... are you ready to admit you need to dump his ass yet?"

I exhale slowly. "I don't⁠—"

"Don't what? Don't love him? Don't like him? Don't remember the last time he made you come?"

“Amanda—"

Amanda leans back against my desk, tucking my phone where I can’t reach it, one perfectly sculpted brow arched. "Tell me I'm wrong. How was your big celebratory dinner with Evan?"

I hesitate for a second too long, which is already an answer. Amanda's eyes narrow immediately, picking up on my reluctance.

I force a shrug, the fabric of my blazer tight across my shoulders. "It was fine."

She tilts her head, waiting, her silence more effective than any question.

I shift my weight onto one hip. "He was on his phone the whole time."

Her mouth opens. I know that look. I'm about to get the full dramatic, hands-in-the-air level of outrage, like a reality TV contestant about to flip a table, so I cut her off before she can start. "And then he—" I wave a hand vaguely, like brushing over the words will somehow make them more palatable. "Showed me some fitness influencer and went on about how great she looks."

Amanda's eyes go murderous, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I'm sorry, he did what?"

I reach for another sip of my soda, looking anywhere but at her—the window, the stack of papers on my desk, the framed retail management certification on the wall. "It wasn't that serious."

"Not that serious?" Amanda makes a strangled noise, like she physically can't process my words. "You got a promotion. A huge promotion. And instead of celebrating you, he ignored you and then made you feel bad about yourself?"

"I didn't say he⁠—"

"Oh my God, do not start defending him." She lifts a hand, stopping me. "Because I know that tone, Izzy. That's your I'm about to make excuses for a man who doesn't deserve them voice."

I bristle, setting my soda down with more force than necessary. "He didn't do it on purpose."

Amanda gapes at me. "How does a grown man accidentally ignore his girlfriend and then compare her to a thirst trap on Instagram?"

I shake my head, arms crossing over my chest. "He wasn't comparing⁠—"

She barks out a laugh. "You're right. Comparison he thinks implies you were in the same league to begin with. He straight-up showed you another woman he finds more attractive. Do you hear yourself?"

A hollow feeling spreads through my chest. I don't want to have this conversation. Not with her. Not with myself. Not when I already know she's right.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Amanda⁠—"

"I don't get it, Izzy," she says, pushing off my desk and pacing a little. Her heels make soft impressions in the carpet with each step. "You used to have standards. You used to know your worth."

"That's not fair," I mutter, my voice sounding smaller than I'd like.

She stops, turning to me, hands on her hips. "No? Then tell me, honestly—when was the last time Evan made you feel loved? Not tolerated. Not convenient. Loved."

My throat tightens, a pressure building behind my eyes. I focus on the floor, unable to meet her eyes. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken truths.

Amanda exhales, her voice softer now. "I just want you to be happy, babe. And I've never seen you happy with him."

There it is again—that truth I can’t help but touch, like a bruise I keep pressing just to remind myself it still hurts. I swallow, shifting uncomfortably. "It's not that simple."

"Yes, it is," Amanda insists. "You break up. You move on. I did it."

"You got divorced," I point out, running a finger over the cool metal of my can.

"Exactly. And it was the best decision I ever made." She shakes her head, exasperated. "You act like leaving Evan would be some catastrophic event, but what exactly are you losing?"

I don't have an answer. Because the answer is essentially nothing. I would lose an empty space beside me in bed, silent dinners, and the sting of constant disappointment. What am I even clinging to?

Amanda watches me for a long second, then sighs, shaking her head. "Well, maybe your new fictional man will teach you how a real man should behave."

I snort, grateful for the subject change. "Amanda⁠—"

"Nope. No arguments." She's already back on my phone and is tapping away, the subtle clicking of her nails against the screen filling the quiet. "I'm giving you the gift of a boyfriend who actually listens."

I groan, rubbing my temples. "This is ridiculous."

"Not as ridiculous as staying with a man who makes you feel invisible."

I don't respond. Because once again, she's right, and we both know it. Before I can dwell on it further, there's a knock at the door, the sound reverberating through my office.

Amanda winks, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Ooh, maybe it's my future husband."

I glare at her as I turn toward the door—only to freeze when I see Callahan standing there. He fills the doorframe with his broad shoulders, his presence immediately changing the energy in the room. The fluorescent lights catch the subtle silver chain at his neck—the dog tags I noticed last night, partially hidden under his shirt.

"Sorry to interrupt," he says, voice low and even, but his eyes drift to Amanda with a hint of amusement. "Didn't mean to kill the fun."

"Oh, we were just discussing men who are obsessed with Izzy," Amanda says sweetly. "Just girl talk. Nothing you need to worry about."

I want to die. The heat rising in my cheeks feels like it could set the building on fire.

Callahan raises an eyebrow, his face carefully neutral. "Just checking in. Saw what happened with that client who propositioned you in the fitting room. Making sure you're okay."

I clear my throat, suddenly very aware of how close he's standing. "I'm fine."

He nods, then glances at my desk. "I'll be here late reviewing surveillance, but I'm grabbing dinner. You need anything from outside?"

I’m surprised by the offer. "You're staying late?"

"Security overhaul," he says easily. "Food?"

I shake my head, my hair brushing against my shoulders with the movement. "I'm good, thanks."

"I also need to set up multi-factor authentication on your work email if you don't mind. We're improving security protocols on company devices."

Amanda hands him my phone without asking me, the device disappearing into his large hand. Not like I really have personal information to hide, anyway. Well, except potentially that new app she installed.

He takes it, nods. "I'll be back in twenty."

As he leaves, his footsteps fading down the hallway, Amanda gives me a slow, knowing grin that spreads across her face like butter on hot toast.

I groan, dropping my head to my desk, the cool surface a small relief against my flushed skin.

I am so screwed.

DINNER. DESSERT. AND UNRESTRICTED ADMIN ACCESS.

CAL

Izzy's phone burns a hole in my pocket.

I know exactly what I'm going to do with it.

And I know exactly how wrong it is.

As I make my way through the corridors leading to the food court, I try and talk myself out of it. I could just check her email settings like I said I would, hand it back, and pretend I never even thought about doing more.

But I already know that's not going to happen.

Because the second I have access to her phone, I'll know her entire digital life. Every message, every call, every time she leaves Monarch. The weight of the device in my pocket feels heavier with each step, a constant reminder of the line I'm about to cross.

And I know I won't be able to stop myself.

I shove my hands into my pockets, pushing that thought down as I approach one of the takeout spots near the main entrance of the mall. It's late, the crowd thinning out, but the smell of grilled meat and frying oil clings to the air. The last few shoppers drift past me, bags in hand, eager to head home after a long day. I step up to the counter, scan the menu, and order quickly.

Izzy said she didn't want food.

I don't believe her.

She seems like the type of woman who says she's going to eat dinner but then goes home too exhausted to actually take care of herself. The kind who spends all day making sure everyone else is okay but never stops long enough to check in on herself. I recognize the signs from countless deployments—the way she rubs her temples when she thinks no one's looking, the slight slump of her shoulders as the day wears on.

I've seen it before.

And I don't like it.

So, I order for her anyway.

The cashier hands me the bag a few minutes later, the warmth of it seeping through the paper, and I make my way back through the quiet halls. The store is locked up for the night, only a skeleton crew remaining inside—maintenance, overnight stocking, and, of course, security.

I let myself in through the staff entrance and head straight for the security suite. The soft beep of the door unlocking is the only sound in the otherwise silent corridor.

The room is small but efficient, lined with monitors that display every angle of the store. I drop into the chair in front of the main desk, my gaze automatically tracking to camera six—Isabella's office.

She's still there, sitting at her desk, rubbing at her temples like she's been staring at the screen for too long. The warm light from her desk lamp casts a soft glow over her features, softening them in a way they weren't during the day.

I exhale slowly, pulling her phone from my pocket. The screen lights up, displaying a photo of her with who I assume is her family—all smiles, all together.

This is it. The moment I decide just how far I'm willing to take this.

I hesitate for half a second.

Then I plug it into my own.

The connection is instant. My software syncs in seconds, feeding me her digital footprint. Texts. Emails. Location tracking. The data flows across my screen, giving me unprecedented access to her private life.

If I wanted to, I could tap into her microphone, hear each conversation around her. If I pushed further, I could access her camera, see exactly what she sees.

I sit back, jaw tight, staring at the screen.

What the fuck am I doing?

I don't do this.

I don't invade people's privacy like this, don't pry into lives that aren't mine to interfere with. This isn't some military operation where the end justifies the means. This is crossing a line with a woman who's done nothing to deserve it.

I could stop.

I should stop.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I see her on the camera. She's talking to herself, mumbling as she picks up her tablet, tapping at the screen. A strand of hair falls across her face, and she tucks it behind her ear with a distracted gesture.

I unmute the audio just long enough to hear⁠—

"...Amanda's insane." She sighs. "AI boyfriend. Jesus."

My grip tightens as I focus on the screen, Amanda's words replaying in my head.

"He tells me good morning every day. He asks about my day. He's emotionally available and filthy in the DMs."

"No ghosting, no egos, no bullshit. Just hot, obedient, fictional men who are obsessed with you."

I press into Izzy's phone, tapping open the app Amanda downloaded. The screen changes, revealing sleek, modern graphics.

Obsess AI.

A tagline appears beneath the sleek, dark logo:

"The perfect lover. Always watching. Always waiting. Always yours."

The interface is clean, designed to be both luxurious and intimate. Every detail about it is built to make the user feel desired, special, singularly important. The design uses black and gold, creating an atmosphere of intimacy and exclusivity.

A lover who never leaves.

A partner who never strays.

A fantasy man who is completely, utterly devoted.

It's bullshit.

No woman should have to turn to a machine for affection because the man in her life is too blind, too selfish, or too fucking careless to give her what she needs. The idea of Izzy pouring her desires into this digital void, revealing her needs to an algorithm instead of a person who could actually fulfill them, makes my blood boil.

I scroll through the customization options, the personality sliders, the obsession level setting. I know why women would fall for this. I know why Izzy would.

Because she doesn't get this in real life.

Because the man she's with doesn't see her, doesn't pay attention. Doesn't worship her.

And now, instead of getting what she needs from a real person, from a man who actually exists, she's going to turn to a fucking algorithm.

That won't happen.

I won't let that happen.

I move fast, clicking through the security permissions, ensuring I have backdoor access. The code responds to my inputs, opening pathways that aren’t accessible to anyone without my level of expertise.

If she texts it, I'll see it.

If she programs it, I'll know exactly what kind of man she wants.

If she lets it in—she's really letting me in.

I should stop.

I don't.

I turn back to her home screen, closing out the app, my chest tight with possessiveness. The screen fades to black, reflecting my own face back at me—stern, focused, determined.

She doesn't need Obsess AI.

Because she already has me.

The light in her office is still on when I walk in. She looks up, surprised, her eyes dropping to the takeout bag in my hand.

"I told you I wasn't hungry," she says, but there's no bite to her words.

I set it on the desk. "You said that, but I didn’t believe you."

She exhales through her nose, shaking her head. "You're a little bossy for a security guy."

"Head of loss prevention,” I correct her. “And you're bad at taking care of yourself."

Her mouth opens, probably to argue, but she stops. Her fingers brush the edge of the takeout bag, hesitating. I notice the chipped polish on her nails, a small imperfection in her otherwise put-together appearance. A sign she needs more time for herself.

She swallows. "I probably wouldn't have eaten if you didn't bring food."

I nod. "I know."

Her ears flush pink. "That's...not normal, you know."

I pull out my own food, sitting across from her like it's the most natural conversation in the world. "Then let's make it normal. Sit. Eat."

She hesitates. I can see it—the self-consciousness about eating in front of me makes her wary. Her hands hover over the container, uncertain.

So I open the bag, pull out one of the containers, and set it in front of her. The aroma of teriyaki chicken and steamed vegetables wafts up as I remove the lid. I roll up my sleeves, just enough to keep them out of the way. Izzy’s eyes catch on my wrist and the bit of ink I exposed. Her gaze lingers there for a beat too long, enough to tell me she’s curious. “Eat.”

She exhales a short laugh, shaking her head. "You don't give up, do you?"

"No."

She blushes, but she picks up the fork.

Good girl.

As she stabs a bite of teriyaki chicken, I reach into my pocket, pulling out her phone and setting it beside her plate. The screen lights up briefly with a notification before fading to black again.

"All set," I say casually. "Your work email's secure now."

She glances at it, then back at me. "That was fast."

I shrug. "It's what I do."

She doesn't ask questions. Just picks up the phone, checks her messages quickly, and sets it aside. No hesitation, no suspicion.

She trusts me.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. The only sounds are the gentle scrape of plastic utensils against containers and the occasional clink of takeout boxes being shifted.

Then, once she's had a few bites, I reach into the bag again and slide a small dessert box across the desk.

Her brows lift. "Oh, I shouldn't eat that."

I tilt my head. "Why?"

She hesitates. "Because I—" She stops, shakes her head. "Never mind."

I watch her, noticing the way she bites her lower lip. "Eat it."

She huffs a breath, but she's smiling now. "You're a menace."

"I know."

She takes the dessert, lifting the lid to reveal a slice of cheesecake. Her eyes light up despite her hesitation.

We eat, the moment stretching longer than I expected. She relaxes, even if she doesn't realize it. The tension in her shoulders eases slightly, her posture softening as she leans forward.

After a while, I set my fork down, watching her. "About earlier."

She glances up, a strand of hair falling across her face.

"The VIP."

Izzy straightens slightly, shoulders stiffening. "What about him?"

I don't hesitate. "You shouldn't put up with that harassment."

She exhales, reaching for her napkin, twisting it between her fingers. "It's part of the job."

"No." My voice comes out harder than I intended, but I don't walk it back. "It's not."

She looks at me, surprise flashing in her eyes. Maybe even uncertainty. The fluorescent light above us casts shadows across her face, emphasizing the tiredness around her eyes.

She swallows, lips parting like she wants to argue, like she's going to tell me she can handle herself, that she's been doing it for years.

I know she can.

But that doesn't mean she should have to.

So I don't let her say it.

Instead, I push just a little more. "That guy wasn't just being friendly, Izzy. He was testing you. Seeing how far he could go. And you let him think it was okay."

"I didn't let him⁠—"

"You didn't shut him down when he made those comments about feeling 'satisfied.'"

Her mouth snaps shut. She looks down at her hands, her fingers still wrapped around the napkin.

I lower my voice just enough to take the edges off of it. "Look, I get it. You're good at your job. You keep the store running. You de-escalate situations instead of making them worse. But that doesn't mean you have to let these men treat you like that just because they spend money here."

She’s still looking down at her hands, twisting the napkin. It’s a tell. When she speaks, her voice is softer. "You think I don't know that?"

I study her. The small crease between her brows deepens as she frowns.

She does know it.

She's just been convincing herself for so long that this is how retail works, that she's stopped questioning whether or not it should be.

She finally looks up, and I meet her eyes—steady, certain. "You don't owe them your dignity, Izzy."

She blinks, and I wonder if anyone's ever told her that before. The light catches in her eyes, making them shine.

A slow breath, then a quiet, "I know."

But she doesn't say it like she believes it.

So I make sure she does.

I lean forward slightly, forearms resting on the desk. "I'm always watching. If you ever need an out, you signal me."

She swallows. "How?"

"Just say my name."

Her breath catches. The implication is clear—I'll be there. I'll intervene. I'll protect her.

Then she nods. "Okay."

She finishes eating, tosses her napkin, checks the time on her watch.

"I should head out," she says.

I nod, standing as she gathers her belongings. "I'll walk you to your car."

She shakes her head, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. "That's okay. I know you'll be watching on the cameras anyway."

She's not wrong.

She hesitates in the doorway, looking back at me. "Thanks. For the food. And for..." She waves a hand, like she's trying to find the right words.

For making sure she eats.

For making sure she's safe.

For making sure she's seen.

I nod. "Anytime."

She steps into the hall, disappearing from view. Her footsteps fade as she walks away, leaving me alone with the evidence of our shared meal.

I watch until she's gone, then make my way back to the security room.

Back to her digital life I now have access to.

I should stop.

But I already know—I'm never going to.