Page 27 of Forced By an Obsessive Bratva Stalker

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Like I said, like a drug, I craved being around her, and that pushed me into doing something I hadn’t planned on doing initially.

I set up a meeting with her.

Not as myself. But as a made-up character, Anton Vasylenko, a consultant for an import-export advisory firm with a website that had taken my people eleven hours to build convincingly and would survive exactly as much scrutiny as it needed to and no more.

I had Yuri identify her usual coffee shop near campus, the one she visited three mornings a week without fail.

The plan was to be there on the fourth morning, seated at the table beside the one she always chose.

I’d have a laptop open, a folder of entirely fabricated import documentation visible at the right angle should she happen to glance over.

She would. She glanced at everything. That was, by now, a fact I’d built a small operation around.

On the scheduled day, I sat at the table next to the vacant one I was certain she’d sit at. My laptop was open, the screen positioned at the right angle as planned. I sat there, dressed in tailored black pants and a black shirt with rolled-up sleeves.

I waited. Patiently.

About twelve minutes later, she showed up, the bells at the entrance jingling as she walked in through the door. Her blond hair was piled up into a messy ponytail with strands framing her face. Her worn-in boots scuffed against the floor as she made her way to the counter.

Her outfit was casual—a brown leather jacket over a pair of jeans. She had her backpack slung over one shoulder, her watchful blue eyes discreetly sweeping across the space.

She chatted with the brunette behind the counter for a moment, her lips curling into a beautiful smile. I watched her from my seat, quietly savoring the look on her face.

Aria grabbed her order, beamed at the barista behind the counter, and turned in my direction. I returned my gaze to my lit screen, pretending not to notice her.

She sat down beside me, set her coffee on the table, and dropped her backpack at her feet. She withdrew her laptop, opened it, and began rattling her fingers across the keyboard.

I didn’t speak. Instead, I just made sure my own laptop screen was in her line of sight because I knew it was only a matter of time before she’d take the bait.

And as expected, she did.

It took her less than ninety seconds to notice the folder.

And that’s when I stared at her, as if to say, I can see you snooping.

She caught my gaze, and I thought she was going to flinch or something. But no. She did not.

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all, her eyes already on the visible header. “Force of habit. I read everything—even the ones I’m not supposed to read.”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,” I said quietly. “It’s customs documentation. Genuinely as boring as it looks.”

“Nothing’s as boring as it looks.” There was an edge underneath her tone, the particular alertness of someone testing the floor before deciding whether to put her full weight on it.

“You’d be surprised.”

“Try me.”

I glanced up at her, my eyes meeting hers in a way that made my heart skip a beat.

“What’s your line of work?” she added, almost immediately. “If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

I was prepared for this already.

“Import advisory,” I replied. “Mostly Eastern European partnerships, regulatory compliance.” I closed the laptop halfway, just enough to suggest I was willing to be interrupted without suggesting I welcomed it. “ What about you? What’s your line of work?”

“I’m not quite there yet.” She flashed me her student ID. “Journalism student. Financial corruption, mostly. Trade compliance, offshore structures—that kind of stuff.” She watched my face when she said it, openly, almost daring me to react.