30. Nell
Finally—peace and quiet.
I’ve never seen him in full work mode before, and honestly? If he ever dressed like that for me, I’d dissolve on the spot. No hesitation.
Black combats, tactical vest hugging all the right places, balaclava covering the bottom half of his face, gear strapped tight across his chest like he was born to wear it.
Legs? Weak. Spine? Questionable.
It’s a look that’s now seared into my memory, archived under, ‘do not revisit unless emotionally stable.’
Because let’s be real—I’m never going to see someone like him in action again. This is a once-in-a-lifetime, unicorn-grade experience. And I’m going to appreciate it for exactly what it is; exquisite, distant, and absolutely not mine.
I can enjoy him from afar. Admire the angles, the focus, the way he moves like he means it.
I just can’t get close.
Because close comes with hope.
And I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime.
Boomerang’s fed, content, and currently locked in battle with the robotic vacuum—tail puffed, claws skidding, full gladiator mode. Which means he’s too busy to care what I’m up to.
Perfect.
With the gym conquered, groceries stocked, and my quota of adulting complete, it’s finally time for the real task. The fun one.
He said he’d be gone a couple of hours. One’s already vanished, and I’m giving myself precisely forty-five minutes before mission abort. No excuses. No evidence.
I crack my knuckles, tie my hair up like I’m prepping for my own version of combat, and head for his room with single-minded purpose.
Full spy mode: engaged.
Let’s see what secrets stalker boy’s been keeping.
His room is a fortress, untouched by anything resembling comfort. I’ve been in here before, fleetingly, chasing the cat, and to steal a jumper. But this is the first time I’ve stopped and really looked.
And it tells me everything.
My gaze hooks on the metal filing cabinet in the corner. Inside, file after file. Dozens of them. All women, by the look of it. Probably all the ones he’s tried to save. Or failed to.
Darcy’s name jumps out from the top. Of course it does.
I pull it out, heart tight, and open it.
Photos—dozens—tucked into plastic sleeves, categorised, timestamped. At the park. On her lunch break. At the gym. Behind a register, laughing at something just out of frame.
I forgot how beautiful she was when she let herself be happy.
And now, the reminder lands like stone. This—all of this—is still about her.
The file is meticulous. Pages of data. Movements tracked. Conversations logged. Medical, financial—even her national insurance number is scrawled into the margins like an afterthought.
He was prepared for her. Studied. Focused. Dangerous in his devotion.
But he wasn’t ready for me. Not for my chaos or my unpredictability. I’ve been stalking the stalker with no afterthought. And now—seeing all of this laid out in black and white—I finally understand just how much I’ve derailed his plan.
How many hours, days, lives I’ve bent off course with one reckless move.
But I press on. I need to know what happened to his wife—what really happened. Not the scraps I’ve been fed.
I trawl through files, drawers, even risk rifling through his underwear like some desperate spy with no moral compass. All in the name of truth, obviously.
Then I open the walk-in wardrobe.
It’s not clothes I find.
It’s a dungeon.
Dark wood panels frame a scene straight from a secret life—whips, cuffs, ropes, padded restraints. Toys I don’t have names for. Gear that looks less like pleasure and more like surrender.
It’s… a lot.
And strangely, not surprising. He never struck me as the flowers-and-candles type. If anything, this fits.
I’ve played before—fluffy pink handcuffs, and the odd spanking. But this?
This is a whole new universe. One with rules and safe words and consequences I haven’t earned the right to imagine.
And maybe—just maybe—a part of me is curious.
But it doesn’t matter.
I won’t be here long enough to find out. Our relationship is platonic. Professional. Strictly guarded.
No more hiccups. No more slip-ups.
Before my mind can run too far down the path of speculation, I shut the door—closing that room of pain back into darkness.
A glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes left.
One final shot.
I stretch my arm across the top of the filing cabinet, fingers sweeping blindly. I can’t see anything, but maybe—just maybe—there’s more up here than lint and regret.
Though who am I kidding? There’s no dust. He’s meticulous. Obsessive. Every surface wiped clean, every secret tucked neatly away in his overly organised life.
Except this.
A single file, yellowed with age. No label beyond a name scrawled in faded ink.
Kyla.
No surname. No date. Just her.
Let’s see what demons you’ve got hidden in your closet.
But what greets me isn’t scandal or revelation. It’s grief.
Not mine—his.
Surveillance clips, dozens of them, stitched together like a visual eulogy. Footage from the moment she vanished. Nothing before. Only the aftermath—obsessively catalogued. Timeline estimates. Street cams. Still frames frozen mid-panic. Crumpled notes scribbled in frustration. Maps. Dead ends. Red string without resolution.
He never gave up.
And in every still image, in every worn fingerprint pressed into these pages—I feel it. The weight of her absence. The devotion he refuses to let go of.
She was stunning. The kind of beautiful that made you hesitate before speaking. Confident. Effortless. The kind of woman I’d never dare approach.
No wonder he loved her.
But it only drives the point deeper.
I’m not her.
And I never will be.
Not in presence. Not in impact. Not in the way he looks at me with pieces of someone else still shadowing his eyes.
And now, seeing this?
I finally understand just how much I’ll always fall short.
Why did I do this to myself?
Why did I drag up the ghost of a woman I can never outrun—never compete with?
Because now I know. If this fails… if he can’t save me, can’t choose me—I’ll just be another name on the list of women who disappeared. And it will still be her he searches for. Not me. Not Darcy.
Just Kyla.
Always Kyla.
God, what a perfectly executed self-sabotage. A masterclass in emotional masochism. I handed myself the hammer and shattered my own delusions, all in the name of answers. I thought knowing would give me power. Maybe even closure. But all it’s given me is confirmation—I’ll never be what she was.
I pack the file away with trembling hands, but it’s too late—the damage is already done. The air feels tighter, like the weight of her memory is pressing on my chest, and tears claw at the back of my throat, begging for release.
But I can’t let them fall. Not yet.
Not while I’m still standing in his room. Not while her scent feels like it still lingers in the paper. Not while everything in here screams her name.
I don’t even know why this hurts so much. It’s not like he was ever mine. Not really.
Maybe it’s the finality of it. Maybe it’s the way reality tastes when all your hopeful little delusions cave in. Or maybe it’s the quiet confirmation of what I’ve suspected but never wanted to face. That he will never stop loving her.
And I—I was just a welcomed distraction. A detour. A momentary glitch in his grief.
Something inside me buckles.
I leave everything as it was—neat, untouched, as if I was never here. As if I hadn’t just clawed open every vulnerable part of myself in a room built from secrets.
Then I run.
Out of the room. Down the hall. Away from the ache clinging to my ribs.
I need a drink—something sharp. Something to burn through this sinking, swirling emptiness that’s latching onto me like a disease.
Because if I don’t drown this feeling fast, it might just pull me under.