Wicked Stalker (Captives of the Onyx Brotherhood #1)

Six

Eve

I should have known. Stupid, stupid me. I stare at the images glaring at me from my phone. Some random girl, not even the same one as before, sending him topless pics just because he asked her to. And the last message, the one sent directly after he left my house. “Be there soon.”

He’s been patient with my fear of intimacy because he’s been screwing other girls behind my back.

How many? A wave of exhaustion swamps me, and I can’t even bring myself to care. It doesn’t matter. One is too many, and now I have cold, hard proof.

Billie glances over, but I click the message off before she sees. I love her but can’t stomach her righteous anger right now. I don’t want to egg Cole’s house or scratch his car. I just want to sit here, watch the end of the Love Island finale, and go to bed.

I make it through the rest of the show, though Billie shoots me worried glances and asks three times if I’m okay. I tell her I think I’m getting a migraine, fill up a giant glass of ice water, and slink off to bed. Once there, I pull out my phone and stare at the messages again .

I’m not even angry. I should be. But nothing makes its way into my heart except weary disappointment. It’s not like it’s news to me. I already caught him out once.

Why did he bother pretending to wait for me? Is it the virgin thing? Some men seem to have a fetish for it, desperate to be a woman’s “first.” It’s gross, and Cole never seemed the type. But he didn’t seem the type to cheat on me, either.

Is this the best I can expect?

Maybe I’ll learn to be one of those women who turns a blind eye to their husband’s affairs. They do that a lot in France, don’t they? I should move there. Or give up on relationships altogether and start my cat collection early. I do love them. Perhaps I should visit the shelter.

The girl in the picture looks so confident, tits pushed together and a sexy smile. So happy in her own skin, not seeing it as sinful or dirty. What would that feel like? Just looking at her makes me feel small. I slam the phone down in disgust.

On my desk sits a mug Cole got me as part of my Christmas present. It’s pink and says “My Princess!” in fancy letters across the top. When I opened it, I thought it was cute, but now it just looks tacky, like the sort of half-assed gift you get someone you don’t really know.

I don’t want to look at it anymore, so I grab an old box from the wardrobe and shove it in, along with the other gifts I’ve got around the place. A book I got halfway through and gave up on. Novelty slippers in the shape of dolphins. All okay presents, but nothing that really spoke to me. Nothing to show he knew me on anything more than a surface level.

Is this why I can’t feel upset?

A sudden thought disrupts my self pity. Who sent the screenshots? I’ve been so busy feeling sorry for myself that the obvious question hadn’t occurred .

Could it be the girl? Maybe she discovered Cole had a girlfriend and decided to get some revenge. It makes sense. But then why block the number? Whoever sent the text must have routed it through a third party so I can’t text back. Curiosity lights up, driving away some of my mopey mood. It could be her. But what if it isn’t?

I’ve had no luck finding out who paid for my place on the enrichment program. The office gave me the name Howard Thurston, but when I google it, all I get is a famous turn-of-the-century magician.

Not exactly subtle. Or reassuring. If I'm supposed to figure out my mystery benefactor is the magician from the bar, then why doesn’t he give his real name?

Gabriel. I’ll never forget it.

Billie is convinced he's an eccentric billionaire, and honestly, it seems less and less far-fetched as time passes. The cards are obviously from him and in no way ordinary or cheap; then there’s the enrichment program, a cool twelve thousand.

And now this. My stomach flops. Maybe I'm not overreacting. If he sent the messages, that means he hacked Cole’s phone. What else has he done?

I glance at my window, and all the air leaves the room. He's watching me somehow. He must be. I yank my curtains shut. Do I have a stalker? I glance at my phone. Is it hacked too?

The gifts are nice—thoughtful, even—but nothing comes for free. What will he think he’s bought in return for his generosity?

I haven’t spoken to the police. What would I say? “Arrest a mystery person for making a twelve-thousand-dollar contribution to my education without my consent”? It sounds ridiculous, and I’m sure they’d laugh in my face. They have real crimes to deal with .

The case of playing cards still sits on my bedside table. I’ve spent a hundred times longer with that gift than anything Cole ever got me. An uncharitable thought—a sophomore marketing student can’t exactly compete with an eccentric billionaire stalker—but it gives me a moment of satisfaction that brings a sharp smile to my lips before fear settles over me once more.

I shove the cards into the top drawer and slam it shut. What if the case has a camera in it? With the crazy tech the cards possess, it has to be a possibility.

What if he’s been watching me this entire time?

***

The next day, even the bright sunshine doesn’t chase away my anxiety. I finally show Billie the text, and we compose a break-up message to Cole. She wants to plot a crazy revenge, but I just want to be done with him forever. Once the message is sent, I block him on everything. Screw him.

Now that he’s in the past, it hits me that I don’t care about him as much as I thought I did. Maybe I’m not much better than he is, using him to tick the “I have a boyfriend” box and feel normal. Or as a shield to protect me from other guys who might try to hit on me. “I’m taken” is a comfortable suit of armor, and now it’s gone. I’m on the market again.

Billie is already planning a big night out. Saturday, a group of her art student friends are heading to Intensity, a brand-new nightclub that’s offering half-price drinks for girls. It’s not my usual scene, but it might do me good. I’ve been so caught up in my own head and need something to shake me out of it.

On the way into my lab session, a hand lands roughly on my shoulder. I spin, knocking it aside with a yelp. In that moment, I’m sure I’ll see the magician staring down at me. I can’t picture his face with perfect clarity and have probably made him more intimidating in my imagination. I look up, expecting to see black eyes glaring back.

Cole’s baby-blue eyes meet mine instead, and he steps back, hands raised. “Woah. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

At the sight of his face and his relaxed, easy-going expression, my patience snaps. How dare he speak to me. How dare he even come here.

“I’ve got nothing to say to you.” I turn to go. He sidesteps in front of me, blocking my way, as people pause to watch.

“C’mon, Eve. It was nothing. Just a bit of fun. I didn’t actually meet up with her. Why'd you block me?”

Lies. It’s so clearly a lie. Why didn’t I see how fake he is until now? I take a deep breath. “Just get lost. I’m not interested.”

Someone in the growing group of onlookers says, “Oooooooooh shiiiiiiiiiiiit,” and everyone laughs.

Cole glances at the group, then back at me. Is he embarrassed? It’s his own fault. He didn’t have to tackle me publicly like this. His voice is low, with a nasty tone I’ve never heard before. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

My voice comes out shrill. “You piece of crap. Leave me alone.”

“She’s maaaaaaaad!" Another catcall from the onlookers.

Blood rushes to Cole’s face, darkening the skin, and he steps closer to me. I back off a step. “I wouldn’t have needed to cheat if you weren’t a frigid bitch with a cunt full of mothballs.”

Heat blasts my face, a wash of shame curling right up from my chest.

“You’re pathetic,” I manage, but it lacks conviction. Even the onlookers stay silent, and I can almost feel their pity. I don’t want to cry, but hot tears press at the back of my eyes. This absolute bastard. Anger rises up on a fiery wave, loosening my tongue. “I wouldn’t have sex with you if you paid me. I’m not frigid. You’re just disgusting.”

The onlookers erupt in louder laughter than the comment warranted. Maybe they feel sorry for me. Cole’s lips thin to a cruel, angry line, but he picks up on the vibe from the crowd. They’re not on his side. Without another word, he storms away.

A girl I don’t know squeezes my shoulder as the group disperses. She’s wearing a weird purple smock dress and has bright green hair, and she gives me a comforting smile. “He’s an asshole. You’re better off without him.”

“I know,” I reply, and I mean it.

Today’s lab work is fun enough to distract me. Most of my professors are dry, older men, but today, I have Professor Angie Simmonds, my favorite. She always wears colorful dresses under her lab coats. She’s a big Harry Potter fan, and jokes that she’s our potions master.

Unlike most of our more regimented classes, she encourages experimentation and discovery, and today is no different. I’m paired up with Haruto, a cheerful overseas student, and we work creating some color-changing redox reactions out of the available materials.

By the end of the session, I’m calm again. Cole is already fading in my mind, losing importance the more his flaws become apparent. Being finished with him is starting to feel like a relief.

After we pack up our gear, a couple of students shoot glances at me, then look back down at their phones. One punches the other in the shoulder, they stare at me again, then head out. What the heck was that?

I check my own phone and blink to see ten missed calls from Billie, along with a couple from other friends and five from my mom. A stone drops into my gut. This can’t be good .

I rush from the room and call Billie back. She answers on the first ring. “Where the fuck have you been? And what the hell is that picture?”

My mind spins but doesn’t connect with anything. “Picture?”

“I mean, I can tell it’s not your body, but it’s a fucking good fake.” She pauses, then draws in a sharp breath. “Oh my God. You haven’t seen it. Someone hacked you. Check your Insta.”

The pieces click into place as I open the app. My new profile pic has my face, but I’ve never seen the body before. The woman is bending forward, and the lacy scrap of fabric over her chest barely covers the nipples. Her hands are on her tits, pushing them up toward the camera.

Everyone will think it’s me. The students in all my classes. Conservative friends from home. My family.

My mom!

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I go to change it, but it demands a password, and mine doesn’t work. Someone changed it, and I’m locked out. The longer the picture is up, the more people will see it. And there’s nothing I can do about it.