Chapter 004: Stalked

SERENA’S POV

“Arrrghhhh…!” I groaned as I opened my eyes, holding my head.

I felt the fire under my skin, every muscle ached in places I had forgotten could hurt. My thighs throbbed, my hips carried a deep bruised tenderness, my breasts felt sensitive enough that the sheet alone made me flinch.

For one blurred second I let myself hope and believe that last night’s events had been a dream, some nightmare marinated with pleasure from a total stranger. But then the soreness I felt brought me back to reality and the unfamiliar ceiling came into focus.

The room smelled faintly of rain, clean sheets, and his semen that still clung to my skin. It wasn’t a dream, it was real. I remembered him, his face, the way he had looked at me in the bar. I remembered his low voice as he called me baby girl like the word belonged to him. I remembered the heat of his mouth and the weight of his body, and the way he had refused to stop until I came shamelessly.

I turned my head. The other side of the bed lay empty.

My hand slid across the sheet, it was cold. The kind of cold that meant hours had passed since any warmth occupied the space. I pushed myself up on one elbow and the room tilted.

“Hello?” My voice came out rough.

Silence answered. The shower wasn’t running behind the closed bathroom door, there weren't any footsteps, and his clothes were gone. I forced myself out of the bed and checked anyway. There was no note on the nightstand or the dresser or the floor. There was nothing to prove he had ever been real except the ache between my legs and the memory of his face etched in my mind.

I did not even know his name.

The realization settled heavy and humiliating. I had let a complete stranger take me from a bar, strip me, and fuck me until I could not feel my legs, and I didn’t ask for his name before and after the sex.

How did I let a man who for some odd reason sound and feel suspicious fuck me? That man knew things no one else would know. The ‘baby girl’ nickname, the ‘Princess’ nickname, the mention of my father, and somewhere in the haze I could have sworn he had said Serena against my ear while he fucked me.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe the intensity of the sex messed up my hearing, either way the possibility that this man knew too much left a cold trail down my spine.

“Damn you, Serena De Luca,” I cursed under my breath. “How could you let this mistake happen?”

Embarrassment burned my insides hotter than any whiskey could. I had spent the last sixteen years of my life building a careful wall. It had taken months of measured steps before I ever said yes to Michael. But in one night of rain and rejection I had thrown every rule out the window for a man I don’t know.

I told myself it was finished. It was just one night and it was a mistake, a mistake that would never repeat itself again. We will never cross paths again, I was sure of that. I was going to walk away and pretend the whole thing never happened.

I grabbed my already clean clothes from the couch, found my phone and wallet where they had landed, and stepped into the shower. Hot water did little for the deep aches but it washed the night from my skin. I dressed quickly, avoided the mirror, and left the room without looking back.

A cab waited at the curb after a short walk. I gave the driver my address and stared out the window while the city slid past in gray morning light. My apartment building looked the same as always. I climbed the stairs, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

Then I froze.

There was my handbag sitting on the living room table in plain sight and my coat lay folded beside it. I had abandoned both items at the hotel the night before after Michael’s heartless words to me. I clearly remembered that I had walked out with nothing but my phone and wallet in my hands. Yet here they were, placed neatly as if someone had simply returned what belonged to me.

A small folded note rested next to the bag.

I picked it up with trembling fingers. The handwriting was precise.

“You should not leave your things behind when you walk away angry. Next time there will be a consequence.”

My stomach dropped.

It was the stalker. He knew about the hotel, he knew I had left in anger. He had collected my belongings and carried them into my locked apartment while I was gone. But there was no spare key. No one had a spare key to my apartment, not even Michael.

How did he get inside my apartment? How long had he been able to walk through my door? Oh my God! Has he ever stood in my room while I was sleeping? What if he had bugged my apartment with hidden cameras?

I swallowed on nothing as I stared at my apartment in fear. Whoever this stalker is, he has upgraded from leaving my favorite flowers, books I had fantasied about, and his short possessive notes outside my door. He has now gotten into my apartment. What once felt like a distant, almost clumsy fascination now felt precise and invasive.

I stayed rooted near the table, bag and coat and note in front of me, listening for any sound that did not belong.

Just then my phone rang.

The sudden noise jolted me hard enough that I nearly dropped the note. Renzo’s name lit the screen. I answered because the alternative was standing alone with the evidence of how thoroughly someone else already knew my life.

“Buon compleanno in ritardo, sorellina.” His voice carried the usual dry warmth, the tone he used when he was simply my brother and not the man who would one day step fully into our father’s place. “Twenty-five already. Christ. You’re getting old, Pooh Bear.”

“Happy belated birthday, baby sis.”

A small laugh escaped me even though it felt brittle. “You’re one to talk about getting old.”

He chuckled. “So how was it? How was the proposal? With the way you talked about him proposing on your twenty-fifth birthday, I half expected your call this morning as you scream, showing me your engagement ring. So tell me, how big is the diamond?”

The teasing landed on the exact bruise Michael had left. My voice caught. “Uhmm… He… mhmm…”

Renzo went quiet for half a second. “What did he do, Serena?”

I swallowed. “He broke up with me on my birthday. He never loved me, Ren. There is someone else.”

The playfulness vanished from his tone. “That bastard! I will kill him.”

I was not thinking about Michael anymore. My eyes stayed fixed on the handbag, the coat, and the note that proved someone had walked through my locked door. I moved a few steps deeper into the apartment without realizing it, still listening for any shift of air or floorboard.

“Serena?” Renzo’s voice sharpened. “What’s going on? And don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

The silence stretched until I could not hold it. “Renzo, someone has been stalking me.”

Complete silence answered on the other end. Not the explosive anger I half expected. Just a cold, focused stillness that told me that my brother had stepped aside and the man who would protect the family at any cost had taken his place.

I kept going because the words needed to leave my mouth. “It started a year ago. But it wasn’t serious. At first it was just a random drop of books, notes, and my favorite flowers outside my door. I thought it was just a harmless reader who found my address. Last night I left my bag and coat at the hotel after the breakup with Michael. This morning they are both sitting in my living room with a note. Renzo, someone came inside my apartment.”

Renzo’s voice returned low and absolute. “Start packing your bags.”

“Maybe I’m overthinking it,” I said, trying to stop him from ordering me back home. “Maybe it’s still just some obsessed stranger who got lucky with a lock. It couldn’t be the Armani syndicate. There hadn’t been a single sign of them in years.”

“I don’t care what it is, Serena,” he rasped. “Someone entered your home. I need you to start packing. You’re coming home.”

The argument felt pointless as I realized how afraid he actually was. The possibility of cameras or a disastrous encounter in the near future made the walls of the apartment feel thinner than they ever had. I had no choice but to agree.

“Fine,” I whispered. “I’m coming home.”