Perfect Stalker

Chapter 1Jenny

CHAPTER 1

JENNY

A gust of wind tears down Peachtree Street, ripping through my thin coat. November in Atlanta isn’t supposed to be this brutal. My hair whips across my face, stinging my cheeks as I quicken my pace toward work.

“Son of a—” The end of my scarf snaps free, dancing in the wind like a demented flag. I grab for it, stumbling in my heels. The click of my footsteps echoes off the surrounding buildings.

Two blocks to go. My stomach twists, and I press my hand against it. Coffee was a mistake this morning, but I’ll need the caffeine to survive another day at “Silver Fox Productions.”

“Move it or lose it, lady!” A bike messenger swerves around me, his shout carried away by the wind.

“You can do this, Jenny.” The words puff out in little clouds. “Just another day at the office. That’s all.”

But my pep talk falls flat as “Silver Fox’s” headquarters comes into view. Forty stories of steel and glass pierce the iron-gray sky like a blade. Dark clouds crawl across its reflective surface.

A woman in designer heels breezes past me through the revolving doors. The scent of her expensive perfume lingers, a reminder of everything I’m not. Everything I’ll never be in this world of power suits and private jets.

“Maybe I should become a caricature artist,” I mutter to myself, pulling my coat tighter. “Set up in ‘Centennial Park,’ draw stick figures of tourists...” The idea makes me snort. My artistic ability stops at doodling flowers in meeting notes.

A florist shop catches my attention, its window display bursting with autumn colors. Through the glass, I spot chrysanthemums in deep burgundy and gold. My nose starts running just looking at them. Working there would be a nightmare of constant sneezing and watery eyes.

Still better than facing Miranda’s snide comments about my clothes, or Tom’s creepy stares. The memory of yesterday’s staff meeting makes my skin crawl. Miranda had spent the entire hour making pointed remarks about “professional attire” while staring directly at my perfectly appropriate pencil skirt.

Sarah, sweet but spineless Sarah, had given me sympathetic looks but said nothing. She never does.

The winter chill follows me through the glass doors of “Silver Fox Productions,” where I’ve dedicated the last four years of my life for reasons I can’t quite fathom the longer I’m here. My heels click against the marble floor of the lobby, the sound echoing through the unusually quiet space.

Something’s wrong. The typical morning buzz—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, and coffee maker gurgling—is absent. Instead, there’s rustling paper and the screech of packing tape being pulled from rolls. I think I hear some sniffling too.

I pause at the security desk, fishing my ID badge from my purse. “Morning, Carl.”

The security guard won’t meet my eyes or look up from the box he’s packing on his desk. He waves me through without checking my credentials—something he’s never done before. He’s always insisted on inspecting the ID every morning though he lets others walk right through. He pretends he doesn’t know me just to torture me.

Or maybe I’m that invisible. It’s hard to guess, and I’ve given up trying to understand how I became the designated whipping girl for the entire office.

My stomach drops when I round the corner to the main office floor. Cardboard boxes overflow with personal items. Family photos. Coffee mugs. Wilting desk plants. My coworkers huddle in small groups, speaking in hushed tones that fall silent when I pass.

Monica from accounting clutches her “World’s Best Mom” mug to her chest, mascara smudged beneath her eyes. Derek from marketing dumps his desk drawer contents directly into a box while audibly grinding his teeth.

“What’s going on?” I whisper to myself, gripping my purse strap tighter.

Sarah intercepts me before I reach my desk. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a messy bun—a far cry from her usual perfectly styled waves. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but her voice stays steady. “You’re the only one staying.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. “What?”

“New management.” Sarah glances over her shoulder. “They cleaned house this morning. Everyone got their notice...except you.”

My mouth goes dry. “That’s impossible. There was no warning, no?—”

“The company’s been sold.” Sarah pulls an envelope from her jacket pocket. “Some Russian media conglomerate. ‘Markov Entertainment.’”

The name sparks something in my memory, but I can’t place it. “When did this happen?”

“The deal closed last night.” Her laugh holds no humor. “I came in to find the notice taped to my computer, just like everyone else…almost,” she says pointedly. “Great way to kick off the holiday season, right? At the unemployment line.”

I scan the room again, really seeing it now. “This can’t be legal,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know better. Georgia’s an at-will employment state. They can fire anyone, anytime, for any reason.

“Two months’ severance,” says Sarah. “Better than nothing, I guess.” She waves a letter that says NOTICE OF TERMINATION on the subject line. The rest of the font is too small to read. “Just watch yourself, Jenny. Nobody gets kept on without a reason. The new owner might be expecting…something.”

The implications in her tone, along with the way she says it—like it’s a given I’ll do that to keep this job—make my skin crawl. I’ve worked hard for this job, climbed from receptionist to executive assistant through pure dedication and late nights despite all the crap my coworkers have laid on me. Is there some foul rumor going around that I slept my way to the top? With whom? Miranda, our loathsome CEO? Not likely.

“I wouldn’t stay if there are certain strings attached,” I say haughtily, making Sarah’s perfect blonde brows arch as she takes a step back. “I should go to my desk,” I say, moving around her. “I need to think.”

My workspace is an island of normality in the chaos—no box, and no termination notice waiting. Just my neat stack of files, my color-coded planner, and the small potted succulent I’ve somehow managed to keep alive.

I sink into my chair, powering on my computer with trembling fingers after confirming there’s no letter taped to the screen. The login screen looks the same, but when it loads, the company logo has already changed. Gone is the familiar silver fox head. In its place is a stark black M against a blood-red background.

My email inbox pings. One new message.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Meeting—10:00 AM

Location: Executive Suite

The message contains no greeting and no explanation. Just three words in the body.

Don’t be late.

My watch reads 9:47. Thirteen minutes to pull myself together and face whatever comes next.

I open my desk drawer and grab my emergency makeup bag. The bathroom mirror shows me what I already know—I’m pale, and my freckles stand out against my skin. I reapply my lipstick with practiced precision, tame my hair back into its neat bun, and straighten my charcoal grey blazer.

The woman in the mirror looks professional, composed, and prepared. Like someone who deserves to keep her job while all her colleagues pack up their lives. I wish I felt as confident as she appears.

The executive suite takes up the entire top floor. In four years, I’ve been up there exactly twice—both times to get a dressing-down from Miranda for someone else’s error. I realize abruptly I never spoke up to defend myself on either occasion. When was the last time I did say anything against their assertions and insinuations? That I can’t remember tells me all I need to know.

Huh. Maybe I’m the reason I’ve become the office whipping girl by allowing it. I squirm at the uncomfortable thought and try to force my thoughts back to my newest worry, which is meeting my new boss. The elevator ride feels endless, each floor number lighting up like a countdown to...something.

I check my watch again, and it’s 9:58. The elevator doors open to reveal a completely transformed space. Gone are the warm woods and comfortable furnishings of the old executive suite. The new décor is all sharp angles, black leather, and chrome. They did this all in one night? Maybe it’s been longer that they’ve been doing renovations up here since I haven’t been up in over a year.

A woman sits at a desk that definitely wasn’t there the last time I was here. Her platinum blonde hair is pulled into a severe chignon, and her black suit probably costs more than my monthly rent. “Jenny Graham?” Her accent is distinctly Russian. “Mr. Markov is expecting you.”

She rises, gesturing for me to follow her down a hallway I swear is longer than it used to be. Her heels make no sound on the plush black carpet.

We stop at a set of double doors that look more like they belong in a fortress than an office building. The woman knocks once, opens the door, and steps aside. “Miss Graham to see you, sir.”

“Send her in,” says a deep male voice with a rumbling timber. It makes me shudder, but not entirely from fear. Is that a hint of a Russian accent I heard? It fits with everything I’ve learned so far—which isn’t much.

I step into the office, and my heart stutters. The man behind the imposing black desk rises to his full height—easily six-three. His dark hair is perfectly styled, and his tailored charcoal suit molds to broad shoulders. Steel gray eyes lock onto mine with predatory intensity.

A strange spark of recognition flutters through me. Something about those eyes, that commanding presence...

“Miss Graham.” His voice rolls through the room, and I definitely detect the faintest Russian accent. “Please, sit.”

I perch on one of the sleek leather chairs facing his desk, smoothing my skirt with damp palms. The office temperature must be seventy degrees, yet goosebumps ripple across my skin.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Ivan Markov circles his desk with fluid grace, coming to lean against the front edge. His proximity sends my pulse racing.

“I...assume it’s about the company acquisition?” My voice comes out steadier than I expect.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yes and no.” He studies me for a long moment. “Tell me, Miss Graham, why do you think you were spared when I terminated the rest of the staff?”

Heat creeps up my neck. “I’d like to think it’s because I’m good at my job.”

“You are.” He pushes off the desk and prowls closer. He stops beside my chair. “But that’s not why.”

My throat goes dry. “Then why?”

Instead of answering, he moves to the window overlooking the Atlanta skyline. “I’m tripling your salary.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Your current salary is sixty-five thousand. I’m offering you one hundred ninety-five thousand, plus benefits.” He turns back to me. “The job requirements will change significantly. You’ll be my personal assistant, handling both business and private matters. The hours will be longer, the expectations higher, and the responsibilities greater, but you’ll succeed.” He says it like a foregone conclusion.

My mind reels. That kind of money would let me help Mom and Dad and maybe even convince her to retire early though she loves the kids on her Pediatric floor. I hesitate because Sarah’s warning echoes in my head—nobody gets kept on without a reason.

“Why me?” I press my hands flat against my thighs to keep them from shaking. “You don’t know me.”

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “Don’t I?”

The way he says it sends another shiver down my spine. There’s history in those two words, but I can’t grasp it.

“The choice is yours, Miss Graham,” he says. “You can take the position, or you can join your former colleagues with a generous severance package. Which will it be?”

My colleagues’ faces flash through my mind—Monica with her tear-stained cheeks, Derek’s bitter anger, and I’m pretty sure I saw Miranda screaming into a pillow in her office as I made my way up here. Former office, I remind myself with a small smile of satisfaction. There are probably invisible strings. I should decline…

But one hundred ninety-five thousand dollars...

“I’ll stay,” I hear myself say.

His smile is all predator. “Excellent decision.” He returns to his desk, pressing a button on his phone. “Natalia, bring in the contract.”

The platinum blonde appears with a thick folder. She places it on the desk and exits without a word.

“Sign here.” Ivan slides the papers toward me. “And here. Initial each page.”

I scan the documents quickly, utilizing my years as a reader to absorb it all confidently. Everything appears standard—confidentiality agreements, non-compete clauses, and the black-and-white sum he mentioned, which makes my pulse skitter just to contemplate.

When I finish, he collects the papers with practiced efficiency. “You’ll start immediately. For now, you’ll be in your old office.”

I stand on shaky legs. “Thank you, Mr. Markov.”

“Ivan.” His voice stops me at the door. “When we’re alone, you’ll call me Ivan.” It’s an order not a request.

I nod, unable to form words under the intensity of his stare. For some reason, the way he just ordered me around is…seductive. I quickly banish that thought.

“Welcome to Markov Entertainment, Miss Graham.” His smile holds secrets. “I think we’re going to work very well together.”