Chapter 7: Stalker

I woke up disoriented.

For the second time in as many days, I had to remind myself where I was. Calloway's penthouse. My new home. My temporary home? I didn't even know anymore.

The silk sheets were cool against my skin, the morning light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased Manhattan like a living postcard. Everything was too perfect. Too clean. Too expensive.

I sat up slowly, one hand instinctively moving to my belly. The baby kicked in response—strong, insistent. A reminder that whatever chaos my life had become, she was still here. Still fighting.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A calendar reminder: Dr. Morrison appointment - 2:00 PM.

Right. Life continued, even when it felt like the world had tilted sideways.

I threw on the silk robe from the bathroom and padded out into the hallway. The smell of coffee and something sweet drew me toward the kitchen.

Calloway stood at the stove, dressed casually in dark jeans and a fitted grey henley. No suit today. He looked... different. More approachable. Almost normal.

"Morning," he said without turning around. How did he always know I was there?

"Morning." My voice came out rough. I cleared my throat.

"Coffee's out, obviously. But I made fresh orange juice. And there's herbal tea if you want it."

He'd remembered. Again.

I poured myself orange juice and watched him plate what looked like French toast with fresh berries. My stomach growled despite the anxiety twisting through my chest.

"You didn't have to do this," I said.

"I know." He set a plate in front of me at the island counter. "But I was up anyway."

"Do you ever sleep?"

"Not much lately." He took the seat across from me with his own plate and coffee. "You?"

"Not really."

We ate in silence for a few moments. The French toast was perfect—crispy edges, soft center, just the right amount of cinnamon. Of course it was perfect. Everything he did seemed effortless.

"We need to talk about yesterday," I said finally.

Calloway set down his fork. "Okay."

"The fertility clinic. Natasha drugging you. The sample mix-up." I took a breath. "That's a lot to process."

"I know."

"And you've known for two months. You investigated me. Watched me." I met his eyes. "What else haven't you told me?"

He was quiet for a moment, jaw working like he was choosing his words carefully.

"Nothing that affects you or the baby," he said finally. "But there are things about my business, my past, that are better left—"

"Unknown?" I finished. "You said that in the contract terms. 'No questions about business dealings.'"

"It's for your protection, Elena."

"Or yours."

His eyes flashed with something—irritation? Amusement? "Both, maybe."

I pushed my plate aside, suddenly not hungry. "I need to know I can trust you. Really trust you. Not just... not just because I have no other choice."

"You have choices," Calloway said quietly. "You always have choices. You could leave right now. I'd make sure you and the baby were provided for, protected. You're not trapped here."

"Aren't I?" I gestured around the penthouse. "Where would I go? I have no money, no house, no job. Damien destroyed my credit. Sienna took my best friend role. My parents are dead. I'm pregnant and running from people who want to hurt me." My voice cracked. "So tell me, Calloway. What choices do I really have?"

He stood, moved around the counter to stand beside me. Not touching, but close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him.

"You have the choice to trust me or not," he said. "To make this arrangement work or to fight me every step. To see me as your jailer or your partner." He paused. "I can't force you to trust me, Elena. But I can show you that I'm worth trusting."

"How?"

"By being honest. Even when it's uncomfortable." He pulled out his phone, tapped something, then handed it to me. "Here."

I looked at the screen. It was a folder labeled "ELENA ANDERSON - SURVEILLANCE."

My blood went cold. "What is this?"

"Everything I collected on you before we met. Photos, financial records, medical history, background checks." His voice was steady. "I want you to see exactly what I know. No secrets."

With shaking hands, I opened the first file.

Photos. Dozens of them. Me leaving my house with Damien. Me at the grocery store. Me at the fertility clinic. Me at doctor's appointments.

"You were watching me," I whispered.

"I was protecting my investment."

"Your investment?" I looked up sharply. "Is that what the baby is to you?"

"No." He took the phone back gently. "That's what I told myself at first. That I was just securing my biological child's future. But the truth?" He scrolled through more photos. "The truth is, the more I watched you, the more I saw someone who deserved better than what she was getting."

He stopped at a photo of me sitting on a park bench, hand on my belly, looking exhausted and alone.

"This was taken three weeks before I showed up at your door," Calloway said quietly. "You'd just come from a doctor's appointment. Damien was supposed to meet you there. He didn't show. You sat on that bench for an hour, just... waiting. And I sat in my car watching you and thinking—" He broke off.

"Thinking what?"

"Thinking that any man who would leave you sitting there alone while carrying his child didn't deserve you. And that baby didn't deserve a father who couldn't be bothered to show up."

Something in my chest cracked open.

I stared at the photo. I remembered that day. Remembered the humiliation of waiting, the anger, the hurt. Damien had texted two hours later claiming an "emergency at work." I'd believed him because I always believed him.

"Why are you showing me this?" I asked.

"Because you asked if you could trust me. And trust requires honesty." He took the phone back, closed the app. "I'm not perfect, Elena. I've made choices you might not agree with. But I won't lie to you. Not about this."

My phone rang, shattering the moment. I grabbed it from my robe pocket.

Victoria Sterling.

"It's your mother," I said.

Calloway's expression shifted—something guarded sliding into place. "Answer it. She'll just keep calling."

I swiped to accept. "Hello?"

"Elena." Victoria's voice was crisp, commanding. "I'm having dinner tonight at seven. The estate in the Hamptons. You and Calloway will attend."

It wasn't a request.

"Mrs. Sterling, I don't think—"

"It wasn't a question, dear. My son married you without consulting me. The least you can do is allow me to properly meet my daughter-in-law." A pause. "And see my grandchild."

The possessiveness in her voice made my skin crawl.

"We'll be there," I said, catching Calloway's eye. He nodded once.

"Excellent. Dress appropriately. We're formal in this family."

She hung up before I could respond.

"Well," I said, setting down my phone. "That was terrifying."

"She grows on you."

"Like mold?"

Calloway's lips twitched. Almost a smile. "Something like that."

"What should I expect tonight?"

"Interrogation. Judgment. Passive-aggressive comments about your background, education, and suitability as my wife." He topped off his coffee. "The usual."

"Great. Can't wait."

"Elena." He caught my hand as I started to stand. His palm was warm, calloused. "She's going to try to intimidate you. Don't let her. You've faced down worse than Victoria Sterling."

"Have I?"

"You've faced down me." His thumb brushed across my knuckles. "And you're still standing."

The touch sent electricity up my arm. I pulled away, suddenly too aware of him. Too aware of how close we were standing. Too aware of the way he was looking at me.

"I should get ready for my doctor's appointment," I said, stepping back.

"I'm coming with you."

"You don't have to—"

"I know. But I want to." His voice left no room for argument. "Besides, we're supposed to be married. Married men go to prenatal appointments."

Right. The arrangement. The contract. The performance.

I was halfway back to my room when I remembered something.

"Calloway?"

He looked up from loading the dishwasher. Billionaire CEO loading a dishwasher. The image was almost funny.

"You said you wanted to show me you're worth trusting. That you'd be honest even when it's uncomfortable."

"Yes."

"I ask again. Tell me the truth. Why did you really marry me? Not the baby. Not the protection. The real reason."

He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer.

Then: "Because I've been watching you for months. And in all that time, through everything Damien put you through, you never stopped fighting. Never stopped hoping for something better." He met my eyes. "I wanted to be part of that hope. Even if you didn't know it yet."

My breath caught.

Before I could respond, he turned back to the dishes.

I stood there for another moment, heart racing, then fled to my room.

***

Later, after I'd showered and dressed for the doctor's appointment, I found myself wandering while Calloway took a work call in his office.

The penthouse was enormous. I'd barely explored beyond my bedroom and the kitchen. Now, I found myself in a long hallway lined with doors.

Most were open—guest rooms, bathrooms, a gym that looked like something from a magazine. But one door at the end of the hall was closed.

I should've kept walking. Should've respected his privacy.

But curiosity won.

The door opened silently. Inside was an office—but not the one where Calloway worked. This one was darker, smaller. More personal.

One wall was covered in monitors. Security feeds, I realized. Different angles of the penthouse, the lobby, the street outside.

But it was the other wall that made my blood run cold.

Photos. Dozens of them. All of me.

Me at the grocery store. Me at the park. Me getting into my car. Me at the fertility clinic. Some of these photos were months old—before Calloway had supposedly known about the baby.

And in the center of them all, circled in red marker, was a photo I'd never seen before.

Me, six months ago, standing outside the fertility clinic. The date was written at the bottom: Three days after Natasha had deposited Calloway's sample.

He'd been watching me since then. Since the very beginning.

"Elena."

I spun around. Calloway stood in the doorway, expression unreadable.

"I can explain," he said.

"Can you?" My voice shook. "Because it looks like you've been stalking me for half a year."

"I was protecting my interests."

"The sample Natasha stole. I had people monitoring the clinic, watching for any unusual activity." He moved closer. "When your name appeared on the log the same day as the 'donation,' I had them investigate. By the time you found out you were pregnant, I already knew."

"This is honesty. I've been watching you since before you knew I existed. I've tracked your every move, monitored your medical records, investigated everyone in your life. And I'd do it all again."

"Why?"

"Because I don't take chances with what matters." He stopped inches away from me. "And you matter, Elena. You and that baby. You matter more than anything."

His intensity should've terrified me. But standing there, seeing the raw honesty in his eyes, I felt something else entirely.

I felt seen.

For the first time in years, someone was actually seeing me. Not as an obligation or a burden or a means to an end. But as something worth protecting.

"This still sounds crazy to me," I said.

"I know."

"You're basically admitting to stalking me."

"I am."

"I should walk out right now."

"You should." He didn't move. "But you won't."

"Why not?"

"Because you're curious. Because part of you understands why I did it. And because—" He paused, something vulnerable crossing his face. "Because I think you're just as obsessed with figuring me out as I've been with watching you."

Damn it.

He was right.

"I hate you," I said without conviction.

"You don't. But you could." His hand came up, hovering near my face without touching. "I sometimes feel you... adore me"

Did I just hear him right?

God help me, I didn't know whether to kiss him or kill him.