6. Elena #2
“You have to tell him, Elena. You don’t have a choice anymore. Marcus has photographs of the two of you together. Dominic has a right to know that he’s been under surveillance, that his privacy has been violated too. This isn’t just about you anymore.”
“I know.”
“And you have to go to the police. Tonight. We’re going to call them, show them the photographs, file a report. This is evidence of stalking, harassment. This is criminal behavior, and you need to report it before he escalates further.”
The logic was sound, irrefutable, exactly what I should do.
The photographs spread across my kitchen counter were evidence of eight months of surveillance, proof that Marcus’s obsession had escalated from admiration to violation.
Lucia was right. I needed to involve the police.
I needed to tell Dominic. I needed to stop pretending I could manage this alone.
The thought of doing any of it made my chest tighten with panic.
“I can’t.” The words came out small, frightened, the voice of someone who’d already made her decision.
“I can’t do this tonight. I can’t call the police and spend hours giving statements and reliving every moment of the past eight months.
I can’t tell Dominic and watch him transform into something dangerous. I just… I can’t.”
Lucia’s expression shifted from sympathy to frustration. “Elena…”
“Tomorrow.” I stood, my legs unsteady, my body still processing the shock of violation.
“I’ll do it tomorrow. I’ll call the police, I’ll file a report, I’ll tell Dominic everything.
Just not tonight. Tonight I need to process this, to figure out what I’m going to say, to prepare for what comes next. ”
“That’s not how this works. You can’t just decide to deal with a stalker tomorrow because tonight is inconvenient.
” Lucia stood as well, her voice sharp with the kind of anger that came from helplessness.
“Marcus sent you photographs of you and Dominic together. He’s escalating.
Waiting until tomorrow doesn’t make you more prepared, it just gives him more time to do something worse. ”
“One night isn’t going to make a difference.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I need time, Lucia. I need one night to process this without police involvement and Dominic’s rage and all the complications that come with making this official. One night. That’s all I’m asking for.”
Lucia stared at me for a long moment, her expression a mixture of frustration and resignation. She knew me well enough to recognize when I’d made a decision, when pushing further would accomplish nothing except driving me deeper into my own stubbornness.
“This is a mistake,” she said finally. “You’re making the same choice you’ve been making for eight months, avoidance instead of action. It didn’t work then, and it’s not going to work now.”
“Maybe not. But it’s my mistake to make.”
“Fine.” Lucia grabbed her jacket from where she’d draped it over the back of my couch.
“I’ll leave. But tomorrow morning, first thing, you’re calling the police.
You’re filing a report. You’re telling Dominic.
No more delays, no more excuses. Tomorrow, you deal with this like an adult instead of a scared child hoping the monster will disappear if you close your eyes. ”
“Tomorrow,” I agreed, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.
Lucia paused at the door, her hand on the knob, her expression softening slightly.
“I love you, Elena. I’m not angry at you for being scared.
I’m angry at the situation, at Marcus, at the fact that you’ve been carrying this alone for so long.
But you don’t have to carry it alone anymore. Let people help you.”
“I will. Tomorrow.”
She left without another word, the door closing behind her with a quiet click that felt louder than a slam.
I stood in the middle of my apartment, staring at the closed door, feeling the weight of my choices settle over me like a shroud.
The photographs were still spread across my kitchen counter, a gallery of violation that I couldn’t bring myself to look at.
Lucia was right. I should call the police.
I should tell Dominic. I should do a thousand things that would transform this private nightmare into public reality.
The thought of it made my skin crawl with panic.
I walked to the kitchen, gathered the photographs with shaking hands, and shoved them into the drawer beneath my silverware.
Out of sight, temporarily forgotten, a problem I could pretend didn’t exist for one more night.
The compartmentalization was familiar, comfortable, the same coping mechanism I’d been using for the last eight months.
It hadn’t worked then. It wouldn’t work now. I knew that with the kind of certainty that came from experience. Avoidance didn’t make problems disappear. It just gave them time to grow, to fester, to transform into something worse.
I poured myself wine and tried to convince myself that tomorrow would be different, that tomorrow I would be brave enough to face what I’d been running from for eight months. The lie was transparent even to me.
I drank the wine too quickly, poured another glass, then another. The alcohol dulled the edges of my panic, transformed the sharp terror into something softer, more manageable. By the time I finished the third glass, the photographs felt distant, abstract, someone else’s problem.
The apartment was too quiet. The silence pressed against my ears, amplifying every small sound: the hum of the refrigerator, the distant traffic from the street below, the creak of the building settling.
I’d lived alone for years, had grown accustomed to the solitude, had even come to prefer it.
Tonight, the emptiness felt suffocating.
I picked up my phone before I could talk myself out of it, pulled up Dominic’s contact information, and typed out a message.
Are you still awake?
His response came within seconds.
Always awake for you. What’s wrong?
Nothing’s wrong. I just—can you come over?
Now?
Yes. Please.
I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.
I set down the phone, stared at the screen until it went dark, then poured myself another glass of wine.
The decision to invite him over was impulsive, reckless, exactly the kind of choice I’d been avoiding for weeks.
Dominic’s intensity had been overwhelming even before Marcus’s photographs had arrived.
Inviting him into my space while I was emotionally compromised and slightly drunk was asking for complications I wasn’t prepared to handle.
I drank the wine anyway.
The buzzer sounded exactly fourteen minutes after I’d sent the text.
I pressed the button to let him into the building, then stood by the door waiting for the elevator to deliver him to my floor.
My reflection in the hallway mirror showed a woman who looked nothing like the composed ballerina who’d left for rehearsal that morning.
My hair was disheveled, my eyes red-rimmed from crying, my face pale with exhaustion and wine and fear.
When Dominic emerged from the elevator, his expression was already dark with concern.
He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair damp from a recent shower, his face showing the kind of alertness that came from being woken from sleep.
He took one look at my face and crossed the hallway in three strides, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes searching mine for injury.
“What happened? Are you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt.” I stepped back, creating space between us, needing distance before I lost the fragile control I’d been maintaining. “I just… I didn’t want to be alone tonight. I’m sorry for calling so late. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
“You’re never a bother.” He followed me into the apartment, his body tense with the kind of alertness that suggested he was expecting danger. “Elena, you’re scaring me. What’s going on? Did something happen?”
“Nothing happened. I just had a bad day, and I wanted to see you. Is that allowed?”
The deflection was transparent, unconvincing, exactly the kind of lie he would see through immediately.
Dominic’s attention shifted around my apartment, taking in the empty wine bottle on the counter, the glass in my hand, the general disarray that suggested emotional distress rather than casual relaxation.
“How much have you had to drink?”
“Not enough.” I finished the wine in my glass, set it down on the counter with more force than necessary. “Does it matter?”
“It matters if you’re using alcohol to avoid telling me what’s actually wrong.” He moved closer, his hand reaching for mine, his touch gentle despite the intensity in his expression. “Talk to me. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together.”
The kindness in his voice was devastating, clarifying, proof that I was making the wrong choice by not telling him about Marcus.
He deserved to know. He had a right to know that someone had been stalking me, photographing us, violating our privacy for months.
Keeping it from him was selfish, cowardly, exactly the kind of avoidance that had allowed Marcus’s obsession to escalate in the first place.
I should tell him. I should show him the photographs, explain everything, let him help me figure out what to do next.
Instead, I kissed him.
The decision was impulsive, desperate, driven by wine and fear and a need to feel something other than the violation that had been consuming me since I’d opened Marcus’s package.
Dominic’s surprise lasted only a moment before he responded, his hands moving to my waist, his mouth opening against mine with the kind of hunger that had been building between us for weeks.
The kiss was urgent, desperate, and tinged with something that felt like goodbye. I pressed closer, my hands fisting in his shirt, needing the solid reality of him to ground me in a world that had tilted sideways the moment I’d seen those photographs.