Chapter 2 - Alyssa
Running away from your problems is supposed to be a temporary solution, not a lifestyle choice.
I duck behind a newspaper stand and peek around the corner, eyeing the busy street for any sign of Troy’s beat-up Honda.
My pulse hammers against my throat as I study every parked car, every face in the crowd.
The coast looks clear, but that doesn’t mean much anymore.
He’s gotten creative with his stalking methods over the past few weeks, showing up at places I didn’t even know he knew about.
God, what a mess my life has become.
A year ago, I graduated from college with a business degree with dreams of conquering the corporate world.
Now, I’m hiding behind street vendors like some kind of fugitive, all because I had terrible taste in men and an even worse sense of timing.
My mother always warned me about my tendency to pick the wrong guys, but I thought Troy was different. Shows how much I know.
Troy seemed normal enough when we first started dating.
Charming, attentive, the kind of guy who remembered your coffee order and texted you good morning every day.
For three months, I actually thought I’d found someone decent for once.
He brought me flowers on random Tuesdays and laughed at my terrible jokes.
He seemed stable, employed, and most of all, kind.
Then I walked into his apartment unannounced and discovered him in the middle of what I can only describe as a very unofficial business meeting.
Strange men with dead eyes and bulging jackets filled his living room.
Money changed hands in thick stacks while someone counted it on a side table.
Someone mentioned “territory” and “consequences” in the kind of tone that made my skin crawl.
Troy stood in the center of it all, barking orders like he was running some kind of operation.
His entire demeanor had transformed from the sweet boyfriend I knew into something deadly and dangerous.
The moment he saw me, his face went white. Every conversation in the room stopped like someone pressed a pause button.
I held up the takeout bags like they could somehow shield me from whatever I’d just witnessed.
The room went silent. Every eye turned toward me, and I felt like a rabbit that had wandered into a wolf pack.
One of the men reached inside his jacket, and that’s when my survival instincts finally kicked in.
My legs moved before my brain caught up.
I dropped the food and ran.
Troy caught up with me in the hallway, and he wrenched my arm hard enough to bruise as he whipped me around. He swore he could explain, and begged me to believe it wasn’t what it looked like. But his eyes darted back toward his apartment door like he was worried about being overheard.
I yanked my arm free, rubbing the spot where he squeezed too hard, and demanded to know what it was then. He couldn’t answer that. Or maybe he just wouldn’t, and I realized I was looking at a stranger wearing my boyfriend’s face.
I broke up with him that night, convincing myself I’d dodged a bullet.
Another toxic relationship ended before it could really damage me.
Another bad influence purged from my life.
My mother was right; my track record with men has always been questionable, but at least this time I got out before things got truly messy.
If only it were that simple.
Troy didn’t take the breakup well. What started as excessive texting escalated to showing up at my apartment unannounced, pounding on my door at all hours until my neighbors started complaining.
When I stopped answering the door, he began following me to work, to the grocery store, to my favorite coffee shop.
Always staying just far enough away to avoid being called out, but close enough to make sure I knew he was there.
I caught glimpses of him in my peripheral vision, always lurking, always watching.
I went to the police, but they were about as helpful as a chocolate teapot. The desk sergeant barely looked up from his paperwork when I explained the situation, his bored expression making it clear he’d heard this story a thousand times before.
The sergeant shrugged like my safety was just another item on his to-do list and said it was probably just a coincidence. That seeing someone in public places isn’t a crime. Come back if he makes a threat or touches me.
Translation: wait until something bad happens, then maybe we’ll care.
So here I am, three weeks later, playing an exhausting game of cat and mouse with a man who clearly has connections to people I don’t want to mess with.
Every time I think I’ve lost him, he pops up again like a bad rash.
My nerves are shot, my savings account is dwindling, and I’m starting to jump at shadows.
My phone buzzes with another text from an unknown number. The third one today. My hands shake as I pull it from my purse.
You can’t hide forever.
I delete it without reading the rest and shove the phone back in my purse. Time to move again. Standing still makes me an easy target.
The irony isn’t lost on me that the night I decided to forget about Troy temporarily led to the best sex of my life.
My friends had dragged me out to some upscale club, insisting I needed to “get back out there” and “show Troy what he was missing.” They meant well, but their solution to heartbreak always involves alcohol and rebounds.
What I found instead was a man who made me forget Troy ever existed.
Maksim Barkov.
Even thinking his name sends heat pooling in my stomach, and my body responds to the memory like he’s still in the room with me.
Tall and muscular with long dark hair pulled up into a bun and eyes the color of the ocean.
Tattoos covered his arms, and he had the faintest scar that ran from his cheek to his left eyebrow.
He moved with the kind of confidence that comes from never being told no, and when he smiled, it was like being let in on a delicious secret. Everything about him screamed power and control, from his perfectly tailored suit to the way other people automatically stepped aside when he walked past.
The way he looked at me across that crowded club made me feel like the only woman in the room.
Not just attractive, but genuinely interesting.
When he approached my table, I fully intended to brush him off like I had every other guy that night.
But there was something about him… the way he held himself, the slight accent that colored his words, and maybe the fact that he seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say rather than just getting me into bed.
Though to be fair, we both knew where the night was headed from the moment our eyes met.
Dancing with him was like floating on a cloud.
His hands on my waist, possessive but not presumptuous.
The heat of his body pressed against mine, solid and reassuring.
The way he whispered my name like he’d been waiting his whole life to say it.
When he suggested we go somewhere private, I didn’t even pretend to consider saying no.
What happened in that office still plays in my mind like a highlight reel.
The way he touched me, like I was made of something rare and breakable.
How he kissed me, with a hunger that matched my own.
The things he made me feel, sensations I didn’t even know were possible.
For those twenty minutes, nothing else existed except him and me and the connection that blazed between us like an inferno.
Which is exactly why I had to leave.
Men like Maksim Barkov don’t do relationships with girls like me.
He probably owns half the city, judging by the way everyone deferred to him at the club.
I’m a recent college graduate with student loans and a part-time job at a marketing firm where I make copies and fetch coffee.
I probably don’t even have that job anymore, thanks to Troy.
We exist in completely different worlds, separated by more than just money.
Better to slip away with the memory intact than stick around and watch him lose interest when the novelty wears off. At least this way, I could preserve the fantasy of what might have been instead of facing the inevitable disappointment of what actually would be.
Still, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed. Would he have taken me home? Would we have spent the whole night exploring each other? Would I have woken up in his arms, or would I have found myself escorted out before dawn?
I shake my head, forcing myself back to the present. Fantasy time is over. Reality is a psycho ex-boyfriend who won’t take no for an answer and a police force that couldn’t care less about my safety.
I’ve been staying in different hotels every few nights, paying cash and using fake names. My savings account is hemorrhaging money, but what choice do I have? Going home means making myself a sitting duck. The constant vigilance is exhausting, but the alternative is worse.
My friends think I’m overreacting. “Just get a restraining order,” they say, as if that piece of paper will magically make Troy disappear.
They don’t understand that some men don’t respect boundaries, legal or otherwise.
They’ve never had someone watch their every move, never felt the constant weight of unwanted attention.
I peer around the newspaper stand again, my eyes scanning every face in the crowd.
Still no sign of the Honda, but that doesn’t mean he’s not here.
Troy has gotten better at staying hidden lately, which somehow makes it worse.
At least when I could see him, I knew where he was. Now I have to assume he’s everywhere.