Page 29 of Obsession of the Bratva

I opened the file, and the first page made no sense. The second made even less sense, and by the third, my hands had started shaking. Every single page outlined the date, time, and location again and again and again, explaining my whereabouts from just two weeks after the breakup until the day Nico had kidnapped me from my wedding.

“What the actual hell,” I whispered the words aloud, but the room offered no answers.

I turned another page, and my stomach dropped.

Monday.

Animal shelter fundraiser.

Arrival: 6:12 PM.

Departure: 8:41 PM.

Companion: Mila Reynolds.

I stared. I remembered that night perfectly. I turned another page.

Thursday.

Lunch meeting.

Brickell.

Arrival: 12:03 PM.

Departure: 1:17 PM.

Companion: Natalie Vance.

My pulse accelerated.

“Oh god, no.”

Saturday.

Bowling Alley.

Arena.

Arrival: 06:35 PM.

Departure: 11:24 PM.

Companion: Ava Malcom Lee.

I grabbed another folder. Then another. Then another. Every single one contained the same thing. Records, observations, notes, photographs. Pages and pages of information about my movements, my routines, and my life. A cold sensation crawled down my spine.

None of this was recent. This wasn’t something that started at the wedding. It stretched back further. My hands trembled as I pulled another file free. Inside was a photograph I recognized immediately. I had been leaving work, and the weather had been terrible that day. I remembered because it had ruined my shoes. I looked at the date. The picture had been taken three weeks after our breakup.

He had started stalking me just three weeks after things ended between us. I stared at it and the dozens of other photographs scattered across the desk.

Then back again.

“Nico...”

The word escaped before I could stop it. I kept opening folders, and the evidence continued. Everywhere I looked, there I was. Leaving restaurants. Entering buildings. Meeting friends. Running errands. Planning that awful wedding. Living my life. And somehow... Nico had known all of it. A fresh wave of anger crashed through me.

This time it was different. Deeper. Sharper. Far more personal.