Chapter 26-The Stalker
Through the crack in the hallway corner, I watch the room service guy roll his cart toward the elevator—silver tray lids gleaming, champagne on ice, strawberries, chocolate, some fancy crepes—all that cliché honeymoon shit.
It would be funny.
If it wasn’t mine.
If that wasn’t supposed to be me in that room with her.
I step out before the waiter even sees me.
Quick.
Precise.
Like I’ve replayed this a thousand times in my head.
Because I have.
He barely has time to blink before I grab him.
One hand over his mouth.
The other holding a knife I slide across his throat.
He goes down easy.
Too easy.
Dead weight slumping against the wall as I drag him out of sight.
Pathetic.
Not even worth the effort.
I crouch, checking his pulse.
Dead.
Good.
I’m not here for him.
I’m here for her.
And for Gunner.
My jaw tightens as I strip off his jacket, pulling it over my shoulders, adjusting the collar, grabbing the tray.
Perfect.
No one looks twice at room service.
That’s the beauty of it.
People expect to be served.
They don’t expect what’s coming with it.
The elevator dings.
I step inside, wheeling the cart in like I belong here.
Like this is my job.
Like I’m just another invisible part of the background.
My reflection stares back at me in the mirrored walls.
Different.
Changed.
But still me.
Still the man she connected with.
Still the one who saw her first.
Loved her first.
Understood her first.
Not that bastard cowboy.
Never him.
The doors open.
My pulse picks up, a slow, steady drumbeat that builds with every step I take down the hallway.
Closer.
Closer.
CLOSER.
I stop outside their door.
Their door.
The thought makes something dark twist in my gut.
Not for long.
I straighten the tray.
Knock.
Once.
Inside, I hear movement.
Footsteps.
Him.
“Just a second,” his voice calls out, distracted.
Good.
That’s good.
That means he’s not thinking.
Not paying attention.
That’s always been his weakness.
Too confident.
Too sure of himself.
The lock clicks.
Door opens.
And there he is.
Benji.
Standing there like he owns the world.
No shirt. Just boxers.
So fucking classy.
So goddamned entitled.
Like he didn’t take something that was never his to begin with.
He barely looks at me.
That’s his mistake.
His fatal fucking mistake.
“Room service,” I mutter, keeping my head down, pushing the cart forward.
He steps back automatically.
Letting me in.
Inviting me in.
Just like that.
Too goddamn easy.
The door shuts behind me with a soft click.
We’re inside.
My hand slips beneath the tray.
Finds the weight I’ve been waiting for.
I straighten.
And lift my head.
“That’s gonna be your last mistake, Benny,” I say.