The Obsession Begins

The lily was still on the table at 6 AM. 

White. Perfect.

I stared at it while I drank coffee I didn’t taste. Ethan hadn’t slept either. He’d spent the night on the phone with security, with lawyers, with whoever could make sure David didn’t get past the lobby again. 

“Get rid of it,” he said finally. 

I picked up the lily by the stem. My hand didn’t shake. That scared me more than shaking would have. 

Ms. Reyes took it when I handed it to her. Her face was stone. “I’ll have it dusted for prints.”

“It won’t help,” I said. “He wants us to know it’s him.”

Ethan came up behind me. “We’re moving the launch to Blackwood Tower. Private floor. No press without invites. No David.”

I nodded. But my eyes kept going to the window. 

To the street 40 floors down. 

Was he there? 

Watching?

By noon the article Lisa leaked was everywhere. 

#SarahMillerUnstable was trending. 

#FreeSarah was trending. 

#EthanBlackwoodCreep was trending. 

My own face. Bruised. In a hospital bed. 

Being used as proof that I was crazy. 

I scrolled for 10 minutes and then threw my phone. 

“They’re saying I’m a liar,” I said. “They’re saying you kidnapped me.”

Ethan didn’t look up from his laptop. “Let them talk. In one week you’ll walk into that launch in a black suit and 200 cameras will watch you sign a $2 million production deal. That’s the only statement that matters.”

He was right. 

But my chest still felt tight. 

The intercom buzzed. 

Ms. Reyes: “Miss Miller, there’s a delivery for you. Flowers.”

“Don’t bring them up,” Ethan said fast. “I’ll come down.”

Too late. The elevator dinged. 

It wasn’t flowers. 

It was a box. 

Wooden. About the size of a shoebox. 

No note. No card. 

Ethan took it from the delivery guy and shut the door. 

“Don’t,” he said to me. 

I was already opening it. 

Inside: glass. 

Shards of a champagne flute. 

The one from our engagement party 2 years ago. 

The one David threw at the wall when I told him I wanted to work at Miller Tech instead of planning the wedding. 

Taped to the bottom of the box: a photo. 

Me. 

Last night. 

In the kitchen. 

In his t-shirt. 

Hair messy. 

Looking at sketches. 

The angle was from across the street. 

From a building that didn’t have windows facing us. 

Which meant he was in the building next door. 

With a telephoto lens. 

I dropped the box. Glass scattered. 

“He’s here,” I whispered. “He’s in the city. Watching me.”

Ethan crouched and started picking up glass with his bare hands. “Security is sweeping the building across the street now.”

“What if he’s already gone?”

“Then he’ll come back,” Ethan said. He looked up at me. “And we’ll be ready.”

I believed him. 

I didn’t feel safe. 

That night I didn’t sketch. 

I paced. 

Every sound made me jump. The AC. The elevator. 

At 1:14 AM my phone buzzed. 

David. 

“You look tired, Sarah. Are you eating? You used to love pasta on Wednesdays. I had the chef make it. Want me to send some over?”

I blocked the number. 

30 seconds later: New number. 

“You’re making a mistake. He’s using you. Come home.”

Blocked. 

New number. 

“II saw the sketches. Black is depressing. You always looked better in white. Like on our wedding day.”

I threw the phone across the room. 

Ethan was in the doorway in seconds. “What?”

“He’s texting me,” I said. My voice was high. “From different numbers. He knows what I’m wearing. He knows what I ate. He knows—”

“Stop,” Ethan said. He crossed the room and pulled me into a hug. 

I fought it for half a second. Then I collapsed into it. 

“I’m not scared,” I lied into his chest. 

“I know,” he said. “But you can be. Just not for long.”

The next 3 days were a blur. 

Security detail. 

Lawyers. 

Fittings for the launch. 

S.M. Collections was coming together. 12 pieces. All black. All sharp. 

The sample blazer fit like armor. The trousers made my legs look 6 feet long. 

When I put it on I didn’t look like Sarah Miller the jilted bride. 

I looked like Sarah Miller the CEO’s daughter who was done playing. 

Ms. Reyes loved it. “This is it,” she said. “This is the story.”

The story was supposed to be: “Woman survives betrayal, builds empire.”

Instead the story was: “Is Sarah Miller okay?”

Because David kept feeding the blogs. 

New photo: Me getting into Ethan’s car. 

Caption: “Blackwood isolates Miller heiress.”

New photo: Me leaving Vanta. 

Caption: “Miller seen with man 15 years her senior.”

New video: Grainy. Me in the lobby, crying after the first police visit. 

Caption: “Breakdown caught on camera.”

It wasn’t a breakdown. It was exhaustion. 

But truth doesn’t matter when David pays for headlines. 

By day 4 I was done. 

“Enough,” I said at breakfast. 

Ethan looked up. “Enough what?”

“Enough hiding,” I said. “Enough letting him control the narrative. We move the launch to tomorrow.”

“That’s 6 days early,” Ms. Reyes said. “We’re not ready.”

“We are,” I said. “The clothes are ready. I’m ready. If we wait, he’ll do something worse.”

Ethan studied me. “You sure?”

“No,” I said. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

*S.M. COLLECTIONS LAUNCH - BLACKWOOD TOWER, 48TH FLOOR*  

24 hours later

The room was black and white. Minimal. Like me now. 

200 people. Press. Buyers. Influencers. 

All invited. All screened. No David. 

I stood backstage in the blazer and trousers. My hair was slicked back. Red lip. 

My hands were shaking. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Ethan said. He was in a black suit. He looked like sin and money. 

“Yes I do,” I said. 

The music started. Low. 

Ms. Reyes squeezed my shoulder. “Go show them who you are.”

I walked out. 

Flashes of camera from every angle.

Questions yelled. 

“Sarah! Is it true about 2023?” 

“Sarah! Are you and Blackwood dating?” 

“Sarah! Where’s David?”

I didn’t answer. 

I walked to the center. A rack of clothes behind me. 

“I’m Sarah Miller,” I said. My voice echoed. “This is S.M. Collections.”

More flashes. 

“For the women who survived,” I said. “For the women who were told they were too much. Too loud. Too angry. This is for you.”

I walked the line. Touched the fabric. 

“This is black because I’m done apologizing. This is sharp because I’m done being soft. This is mine.”

Applause. Real applause. 

For 20 minutes I felt powerful. 

Then my phone buzzed in my pocket. 

I ignored it. 

It buzzed again. 

And again. 

And again. 

Ms. Reyes slipped on stage and handed me the phone. Her face was white. 

I looked down. 

50 missed calls. 

All from unknown numbers. 

And one text. 

From David. 

“Beautiful show, Sarah. Too bad you won’t get to wear it.  

Check your email.”

My blood went cold. 

I opened my email with shaking fingers. 

Subject: *YOU’RE WELCOME* 

Attachment: A video. 

I pressed play. 

It was me. 

3 days ago. 

In the guest room. 

In Ethan’s t-shirt. 

Crying. 

Saying “I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough.”

The video panned. 

Showed the sketches. 

Showed the S.M. Collections folder. 

Showed me burning the lily. 

And at the end: a clip of Ethan and me. 

In the kitchen. 

Hugging. 

Caption across the screen in David’s handwriting: 

“She’s unstable. She’s with him. She’s not fit to run Miller Tech.”

The room was silent. 

Someone in the crowd gasped. 

Then whispering. 

Then phones came out. 

They’d all gotten the email. 

At the same time. 

David had just sent it to everyone in the room. 

My face was on the big screen behind me. Crying. 

I looked up. Ethan was already moving toward me. 

But before he got there, the doors at the b

ack of the room opened. 

And David walked in. 

In a suit. 

Smiling. 

With two security guards behind him. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he said to the room. “I’m here to help my fiancée.”

Fiancée. 

The word hit like a punch. 

He looked at me. 

“Hi, Sarah. You look beautiful. Let’s go home.”