Stalked by the Mercenary (In His Sights #1)

Prologue

Lily

The stage is the only place I belong.

Out there, under the spotlight, I am someone. I am beautiful, graceful, untouchable. Every step, every note, every flick of my wrist belongs to a world where I am confident. Poised. Desired.

Off-stage? I’m an awkward mess. My hands shake when I meet new people, my tongue trips over itself in conversation, and I blush so easily it’s embarrassing. I have always been sweet, innocent Lily. No one has ever called me irresistible; no one has ever wanted me period.

But lately, strange things have been happening.

It started small. A bouquet of white lilies—my namesake—left in my dressing room after a performance. No card. Just pristine petals and the intoxicating scent filling my space. I assumed a fan had managed to slip past security, nothing more.

Then came the letters.

They arrive in thick, expensive envelopes, each one pressed with no return address, no name. Inside, the words are written in deep black ink, elegant but forceful.

You were made to be adored.

No one sees you the way I do.

You shine so brightly, little star. One day, you’ll see yourself the way I do.

There is nothing crude, nothing overtly inappropriate. Just an unsettling intensity. Whoever he is, he writes like he knows me. Like he has memorized my every movement, my every breath. Like he sees something in me that no one else ever has.

Then, the feeling started. That prickle at the back of my neck, the weight of unseen eyes following me, pressing against me even when I’m alone. Sometimes, I turn quickly, expecting to catch someone in the act. But there’s never anyone there. Just the dark, yawning corners of the theater. Just my own reflection in the mirror, wide-eyed and uneasy.

Tonight is no different.

I step off the stage after our final performance of the night, my heart still racing from the last scene. The audience erupts in applause, but the moment the lights go out, the exhilaration fades. The spirit that takes over me when I perform vanishes, and I shrink back into myself.

The dressing rooms buzz with energy as cast members celebrate another successful night. My closest friend in the theater, Shay, sits on the edge of the stage, scrolling through her phone. I approach her, but a rustling sound makes me pause.

I glance toward the heavy maroon curtain swaying gently at the edge of the stage. The auditorium is empty, the shadows dense between rows of vacant seats. Silence rings in my ears, and I hold my breath, straining to listen.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what, Lily?” Shay lifts an eyebrow, barely looking up from her phone. Then she looks up when I don’t answer. “You're jumping at ghosts again.”

“I’m serious.” My pulse quickens, and I step closer, eyes fixed on the spot where I thought I heard footsteps. “Someone’s back there.”

She sighs, sliding off the stage with practiced grace. “Fine. I’ll go look.” She strides toward the curtain, pulling it aside with a dramatic flourish. Then she looks left and right. “See? Nothing but air.”

My shoulders slump and my cheeks warm. “I guess I'm imagining things.”

Shay walks back, nudging my shoulder gently. “Girl, you need to relax. You’re always a bundle of nerves off-stage.”

I nod, offering a half-hearted smile. Shay’s right. Off-stage, I’m awkward, shy, perpetually nervous.

Which is why, it’s hard to believe that someone is watching me right now.

Later, after everyone has left, I return to my dressing room for my purse. The air feels stuffy, the scent of old makeup and dust lingering heavily. My gaze lands on my vanity mirror, where a fresh rose lies across the tabletop, petals crimson like spilled ink. My breath catches, and I glance quickly at the door, heart fluttering uneasily.

I inch closer, spotting a small card tucked beneath the flower. With trembling fingers, I unfold it, my heart lurching.

You shone beautifully tonight, Lily. I’m always watching.

Ice fills my veins. My pulse pounds loudly in my ears, and suddenly, every shadow around me feels alive.

“Breathe,” I whisper to myself, forcing air into my lungs. It’s just a note. Maybe an overzealous admirer and not a stalker. But my hands still shake as I place the rose aside.

I gather my belongings quickly, eager to escape the oppressive silence. The hallway is deserted now, and I quicken my footsteps as I walk. I push open the theater’s side door, inhaling the cool night air.

I hurry toward my car, unlocking the door and slipping inside, instantly locking it behind me. A relieved breath escapes, and I slump into the seat.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter. There’s no way anyone would be interested in watching me.

Yet my eyes remain glued to the rearview mirror the entire drive home.

When I get to my apartment, I double-check each lock, draw the curtains closer together, and then check the locks one more time.

Before I go to bed that night, I look in the mirror and repeat to myself. I. do. Not. Have. A. stalker.