Love Me Stalk Me (Obsessively Yours #1)

Chapter 1 He’s serving trauma with a side salad

HE’S SERVING TRAUMA WITH A SIDE SALAD

ISABELLA RUSSO

There are exactly three ways I know a date with Evan is going to be a disaster before we even sit down.

One: He takes a work call on the way there.

It's not a quick, polite, Hey, I'll call you back in a bit situation.

No, this is Evan in full corporate shark mode, barking into his Bluetooth like a hedge fund manager who just lost a million-dollar deal.

By the time we arrive, he's already so deep in business-mode that I could shave my head at the table and he wouldn't notice.

Two: He insists on choosing where we go.

In theory, this wouldn't be a problem if he had decent taste.

But Evan's definition of "a nice place" falls into one of two categories: steak houses where the sides are extra and the clientele is 95 percent older men in Rolexes, or trendy fusion spots where the portions are laughably small and plated with a side of smugness.

He once took me to a place where the "main course" was a single scallop on a plate decorated with edible foam. I left hungrier than when I arrived.

And finally, Three: He does the thing.

The thing where he barely glances at me the entire night, scrolls his phone like it holds the secret to immortality, then—just when I think he might actually engage in human conversation—he says a remark so colossally douchey that I have to remind myself that jail time isn't worth it.

Tonight, we've already hit all three.

I watch my reflection in the polished chrome elevator doors as we ride up to the restaurant, mentally preparing myself for disappointment.

I actually put effort into getting ready tonight—a formfitting black dress that’s tight but doesn’t cling so much that it makes me self-conscious when sitting down, heels that pinch my toes and will have me limping in an hour, and hair styled in loose waves that were supposed to look effortless but are already losing the battle against the biting New York wind that whipped around me on the walk from the cab.

I even put on red lipstick, a bold choice considering Evan once told me he doesn't like when I wear "loud" colors. I guess I was feeling rebellious.

I catch my reflection again and try not to fixate on how different I look now compared to when we first started dating.

Three years and thirty pounds ago, I was the girl who didn't think twice about wearing form-fitting dresses.

Now I'm the kind who strategically shops for clothes that hide the curves and softness that Evan has deemed "problematic. "

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, releasing a wave of conversation, clinking glasses, and the rich aroma of seared meat and butter.

The soft elegance of the restaurant unfolds before us.

A hostess with a sleek ponytail gives us a practiced smile as we step forward.

Before I can even speak, Evan's phone vibrates against his hip and he answers immediately.

"Yeah?" His tone is clipped and distracted as he motions for me to go ahead with a flick of his wrist, already absorbed in whatever urgent crisis the financial world has thrown at him.

I should've just stayed home, curled up on my couch with pasta that doesn't cost half my paycheck.

The restaurant is one of those overpriced steakhouses that thinks mood lighting means customers should barely be able to see their food.

I blink repeatedly, adjusting to the low lighting as we follow the hostess to our table, my heels sinking into plush carpet with each step.

We're surrounded by rich mahogany paneling, deep red leather booths worn smooth by years of expensive suits, and walls lined with backlit liquor bottles that cast amber shadows across old-money ambience.

The air is thick with the scent of aged scotch and expensive cologne.

If you squint, you can almost see the ghost of Gordon Gekko and his Wall Street cronies smoking cigars in the corner.

I slide into the cool leather of the booth. Evan sits opposite me. His phone stays out, screen glowing in the darkness between us.

This is fine. Totally fine. I love dating a man whose most stable relationship is with his notifications.

"So," I start, trying to salvage this evening before I lose my will to live. "I had my first meeting with corporate today. They went over the hiring budget for the new location—"

"Huh?" Evan doesn't look up. He's scrolling, thumb moving with practiced efficiency.

I take a deep breath, and try again. "The hiring budget. For my new position."

"Oh. Right." He finally glances up, just long enough to give me the most half-assed, patronizing smile I've ever seen. "That's cute, babe. Store manager, huh? Next stop, CEO?"

That's cute, babe? I'm twenty-eight years old and just got a huge promotion I worked my ass off for, and the best he can do is “that's cute, babe?” As if I don't spend fifty hours weekly managing a multimillion-dollar retail floor, handling hiring decisions, dealing with vendors, overseeing loss prevention strategies, and balancing corporate's absurd expectations with store reality.

My grip tightens around my water glass, the condensation wetting my fingers. I'm one condescending remark away from drowning myself in this overpriced sparkling water.

Our waiter arrives—a tall guy with a perfectly symmetrical face and a smile that suggests he gets paid extra to flirt.

"What can I get for you tonight?" he asks, directing the question at me because, unlike Evan, he actually acknowledges my presence.

I open my mouth, the smell of a passing steak making my stomach growl—

"She'll have the filet," Evan says, handing the menu over. "Medium well." His eyes focus on me, taking in the slight roundness of my arms exposed by my dress, before adding, "And just the salad for the side. No potato."

The message is clear as the crystal wine glasses on our table. I don't miss how he orders for me now, how my food choices have become specimens he monitors like my personal nutritionist-slash-warden.

Medium well with no potato. Evan just sentenced a perfectly good cut of steak to a slow, tragic death, and I'm being forced to witness it—and go hungry.

I stare at the waiter, silently begging him to tackle my boyfriend to the ground and make me single.

He hesitates, his pen hovering over his notepad, probably waiting for me to protest, but I just plaster on a smile and nod. Because, what's the fucking point?

The waiter disappears, leaving Evan and me alone, though I might as well be dining solo for all the attention he gives me. His phone is practically fused to his hand, the screen casting a dull blue glow over his features as he gets back to scrolling.

I take a sip of water, the ice clinking against the glass, trying to summon the energy to care. This is how our dinners go now—we sit together without actually sitting together. He's always half-distracted, half-busy, half-anywhere but here.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when Evan looked at me like he actually saw me, laughed at my jokes instead of just exhaling through his nose, and pulled me into his lap instead of leaning away when I tried to touch him in public.

Back when I was lighter, when stress hadn’t driven me to late-night ice cream binges and comfort pasta.

Back before his expectations and the relentless pressure of my job started carving themselves into my body—softening my once-flat stomach, rounding my cheeks.

I tell myself this is just a rough patch, that he still loves me, that he's just stressed—even though deep down, I know this is just who he is now.

I watch as he thumbs through Instagram, pausing briefly on a post before tilting his screen toward me.

"Damn, look at her," he says, showing me a photo of some influencer posing in front of a gym mirror, abs flexed, a slick sheen of sweat on her impossibly toned stomach. "She's been absolutely killing it lately."

His voice holds a hint of admiration he hasn't used for me in quite some time. I turn away from his phone, my appetite shrinking into a hard knot. He doesn't say “you should look like this”—he doesn't have to. The subtext is clear.

I glance down at myself, at my dress clinging too snugly to my middle, at how my thighs spread wide.

I can feel the seam of my dress digging into my waist, a constant reminder of the body I now inhabit.

Evan doesn't think I'm sexy, not the way I am now.

I already knew this—he's been dropping hints for months, like casually mentioning an article about intermittent fasting or nudging a gym membership flyer toward me on the counter.

Or now, showing me a woman he actually finds attractive and hoping I take the hint.

I set my water glass down too hard on the starched white tablecloth. Evan doesn't notice. He just keeps scrolling.

I watch his perfectly manicured fingers swipe at his screen, his Rolex glinting under the restaurant's lighting.

He's the picture of finance bro elegance—Met Gala-level suit, slicked-back blond hair with not a strand out of place, sharp jawline that could probably get him a modeling contract if he ever decided to retire from emotionally neglecting his girlfriend.

Once upon a time, this was exactly the type of guy I wanted.

When I was younger, I had a very specific idea of what my dream man looked like.

And sure, it may be oddly similar to a specific Tiktok song, but I maintain I had the vision first: works in finance (with opinions about the stock market but doesn't make it his whole personality), trust fund baby (but one of the humble ones), over six feet tall (because obviously), and blue eyes (because I was shallow).

Somehow, against all odds, I actually got him—the New York finance guy of my teenage dreams who quickly turned into a bit of a nightmare.