8. Dominic
Dominic
I drove without destination, my hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make my knuckles white, my mind replaying the photographs over and over in an endless loop of violation and rage.
Someone had been watching her. For eight months, some obsessed stranger had been following Elena around the city, documenting her life, building a fantasy that had escalated from admiration to surveillance to explicit photography.
He’d been outside her window tonight, watching through the glass while we made love, capturing the most intimate moments of our relationship with the clinical precision of someone who believed he had a right to witness them.
The violation of it made my vision blur with fury.
Elena had known. For eight months, she’d known someone was stalking her, and she’d said nothing.
She’d hidden it from me, lied to me by omission, allowed me to believe everything was fine while this man built his obsession into something that now threatened both of us.
She’d invited me over tonight, had sex with me, let me believe I was claiming her, making her mine, while this sick fuck was outside her window documenting every moment for his own twisted purposes.
She’d been afraid of how I would react.
The realization was a knife between my ribs, sharp and precise and devastating in its accuracy.
She’d looked at my intensity, my possessiveness, my need to claim and protect what was mine, and she’d decided I was too dangerous to trust with the truth.
She’d decided that my reaction would be worse than the stalking itself, that I would do something reckless and violent and ultimately destructive.
She wasn’t wrong.
The moment I’d seen those photographs, the moment I’d realized what had been happening while I’d been pursuing her with single-minded intensity, my first instinct had been violence.
I wanted to find this man and hurt him in ways that would make him regret ever looking at Elena.
I wanted to make him understand that she was mine, that touching her or watching her or even thinking about her was a violation that demanded retribution.
The possessiveness of the thought should have disturbed me. Instead, it felt righteous, justified, exactly the appropriate response to someone who’d been stalking my girlfriend and photographing her having sex.
I pulled into the parking lot of Commonwealth Arena, the building dark and empty at three in the morning. The ice was my sanctuary, the place I went when the world felt too complicated, when the rage inside me needed an outlet that wouldn’t land me in prison.
I let myself in with my key card, changed into my practice gear in the empty locker room, and stepped onto the ice. The cold air was clarifying, grounding, exactly what I needed to think clearly about what came next.
Elena had lied to me. She’d hidden something significant, something that affected both of us, because she was afraid of my reaction. The betrayal of it was sharp, painful, exactly the kind of thing that should make me walk away and never look back.
I couldn’t walk away.
The realization was frustrating, infuriating, proof that my feelings for her had already gone deeper than I’d intended.
I’d spent the past month pursuing her with the kind of intensity I usually reserved for hockey, convinced that once I had her, once she was mine, the obsession would fade into something more manageable.
It hadn’t faded. If anything, it had intensified.
I skated hard, pushing my body until my muscles burned and my lungs ached, trying to exhaust the rage that had been building since I’d discovered those photographs.
The physical exertion helped, but it didn’t erase the images burned into my mind.
Elena and me together, intimate and vulnerable, documented by someone who had no right to witness those moments.
The violation was complete, devastating, exactly the kind of thing that demanded retribution.
The violation was complete, devastating, exactly the kind of thing that demanded retribution.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it, continued skating, pushing harder. It buzzed again, insistent. I finally stopped, pulled it out, and saw Josh’s name on the screen.
Where are you? Your location shows the arena. It’s 3 AM. What the fuck is going on?
I stared at the message for a long moment, debating whether to respond.
Josh was my best friend, the person who knew me better than anyone, the voice of reason when my intensity threatened to consume me.
He would tell me to calm down, to think rationally, to handle this through proper channels rather than vigilante justice.
He would be right.
I didn’t want him to be right. I wanted permission to find this person and hurt him, to make him understand that Elena was mine and that violating her privacy was a mistake that demanded consequences.
I called Josh instead of texting back.
He answered on the first ring, his voice rough with sleep and concern. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. I just needed to skate.”
“At three in the morning? Try again.” The sound of movement came through the phone, Josh clearly getting out of bed. “What happened? Does this have something to do with Elena?”
“Someone’s been stalking her.” The words came out flat, emotionless, the only way I could say them without losing control.
“For eight months. Taking photographs, following her around the city, building an obsession. She didn’t tell me.
She knew, and she didn’t tell me, and tonight while we were…
” I stopped, unable to finish the sentence.
“He was outside her window. Taking pictures. Explicit pictures.”
The silence on the other end lasted three seconds.
“Jesus Christ.” Josh’s voice was sharp with shock and anger. “Is she okay? Are you okay? Have you called the police?”
“She’s calling them now. I left. I had to leave before I did something I’d regret.”
“Like what?”
“Like finding this man and making him regret ever looking at her.” The honesty was raw, unfiltered, exactly what Josh needed to hear to understand the depth of my rage.
“She has his name, Josh. Marcus Webb. It would take me maybe an hour to find his address, to show up at his door, to make him understand that Elena is mine and that watching her is a violation that demands consequences.”
“Don’t.” Josh’s voice was firm, authoritative, the tone he used when he was trying to talk me down from something reckless. “Don’t do that. Don’t give this man the satisfaction of proving that you’re exactly as dangerous as Elena was afraid you’d be.”
The words landed like a physical blow, sharp and precise and devastating in their accuracy.
“She told you that? That she was afraid of me?”
“She didn’t have to tell me. I’ve seen the way you look at her, the way you’ve pursued her with the kind of intensity that would terrify most people.
I’ve watched you transform from someone who was casually interested to someone who’s completely obsessed in the span of a month.
Of course she’s afraid of you. Anyone with sense would be afraid of you when you’re like this. ”
“I would never hurt her.”
“I know that. You know that. But does she know that? Or does she look at your possessiveness and see echoes of this stalker’s obsession?
” Josh’s voice softened slightly. “Dom, I love you like a brother, but you need to hear this. Your intensity is overwhelming. The way you pursue what you want, the way you claim ownership of people and things, the way you’ve integrated yourself into Elena’s life; it’s a lot.
For someone who’s been dealing with a stalker for eight months, your behavior probably feels uncomfortably similar to what she’s been trying to escape. ”
The comparison was infuriating, insulting, exactly what I didn’t want to hear.
It was also accurate.
I’d pursued Elena with single-minded intensity, had shown up at her coffee shop and her rehearsals and her apartment without invitation, had sent her texts constantly, had made it clear that I considered her mine long before she’d agreed to be.
The behavior that I’d thought was romantic pursuit could easily be interpreted as obsessive, controlling, exactly the kind of thing that would frighten someone who was already being stalked.
“I’m nothing like him,” I said, the words defensive, desperate. “What I feel for Elena is real, mutual, consensual. His obsession is delusional, one-sided, completely violating. We’re not the same.”
“I know you’re not the same. But can you understand why she might have trouble seeing the difference when your possessiveness looks similar to his obsession from the outside?
” Josh paused, letting the question sink in.
“She didn’t tell you about the stalker because she was afraid of how you would react.
She was right to be afraid, Dom. You’re at the arena at three in the morning skating off rage because if you weren’t, you’d be hunting down this man and doing something that would ruin your career and possibly land you in prison.
That’s not a normal response. That’s an obsessive response. ”
“He was watching us have sex. He has explicit photographs that he can use to destroy both of our careers. How am I supposed to react to that?”
“With anger, absolutely. With a desire to protect her, definitely. But not with vigilante justice. Not with violence. You react by supporting her while she goes through the legal process of getting a restraining order and pressing charges. You react by being there for her, not by proving that you’re exactly as dangerous as she feared. ”
The logic was sound, infuriating, exactly what I needed to hear even though I didn’t want to accept it.