6. DAMN STALKER

SPENCER HAYES’S POV

My conversation with Annika is still rushing in my head, even though it’s been two months since that incident. There is no sign of Dmitri in my life except someone is constantly following me on a bike all across the town, leaving whenever I reach home, and has no intention of hiding his stalking tendencies.

Make it so obvious, like he wishes me to acknowledge him.

Are all the Romanov’s siblings the same?

I step on the accelerator, feeling the rush of adrenaline as my sleek, black SUV glides through the winding forest roads.

Finally, the grueling shoot for my new designer collection is over. Now, I can unwind and bask in my own glory. After all, I am Spencer Hayes, the fashion icon.

As I glance in the rearview mirror, my perfectly chiseled features catch my attention. My hair, perfectly messy. My eyes, piercingly captivating. I flash a dazzling smile, admiring my reflection.

But my self-admiration is interrupted by a familiar, unsettling sight—a black Bugatti bike tailing me, just like it has for the past two months. Mr. Stalker.

A shiver runs down my spine, but my confidence quickly kicks in. Who wouldn't be obsessed with me? My charm, my looks, my talent—I'm irresistible. I just hope he doesn’t kill me in such a dead-ass place like this; I at least deserve to die in Paris while drinking my favorite cocktail.

I focus on the road ahead, my mind racing with possibilities.

I accelerate, taking the turns with precision, testing the stalker's skills. The bike keeps pace, its headlights gleaming in my mirror.

A thrill of excitement mixed with annoyance courses through me. This game of cat and mouse has gone on long enough. Time to take control.

I take a sharp turn, expertly maneuvering my SUV onto the main road. The bike follows, its engine roaring.

Enough.

I pull over, parking my SUV with precision. The bike stops beside me, its rider clad in black, helmet concealing their face.

My eyes lock onto the mysterious figure, a mix of irritation and fascination brewing within me.

"You're quite persistent," I say, voice low and commanding.  "What do you want?"

I gaze into the biker's helmet, expecting some crazed fan or obsessive admirer. But nothing prepares me for the shock of recognition that hits me like a ton of bricks.

The helmet comes off, revealing a chiseled face with piercing eyes—DMITRI ROMANOV.

My mind reels as I recall that fateful night, the alleyway, and the sound of a body hitting the ground. The memory I'd tried to bury surfaces, and a chill runs down my spine.

"Dmitri," I whisper, my voice trembling.

Dmitri's gaze locks onto mine, his expression unreadable.

Dmitri dismounts his bike, his movements fluid.

"What do you want?" I press.

I get out and slam the car door shut, storming out to confront Dmitri. My eyes blaze with anger and fear.

"You bloody murderer!" I spit, my voice echoing through the deserted road.

He looks in my eyes with his so-called famous sweetness he is famous for.

His lips curve into a smirk, giving me a cold chill through my spine.

"You're a hard man to shake off, Spencer," he says, his tone low and menacing.

I take a step closer, my slender figure trembling with rage.

"What do you want from me, huh!? My life? My soul? My body?"  I demand.

He gets close to my face and says.

"If I wanted to take your body, you would have spread your legs for me on this dark road. I know better than anyone else of how much of a desperate bitch you are for huge dicks."

He circled his fingers around his lips and started moving his tongue in rotational motion on them, imitating me.

THE FUCKING AUDACITY.

"Listen here, Mr. Romanov. If you follow me again," I warn, "I'll call the police and have you arrested."

Dmitri's smile grows wider.

"You don't need to worry, my little prince," he says. "Even if you die trying to get me arrested, that would be of no use. Nothing in this world can put me behind bars."

His words send a chill down my spine.

Dmitri's eyes seem to bore into my soul.

"I don't want your body, soul, or death, Spencer," he says.

I exhale, expecting a worse revelation.

"What do you want then?" I ask.

Dmitri's smile grows wider.

"I want you whole. I want your happiness, your tears, your annoying talks about how great you are, or your real identity. I want you to date me. Simple, right?"

Dmitri's hand brushes against my waist, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Remove your hand," I hiss.

Dmitri's eyes lock onto mine, his gaze burning.

"I can't control myself whenever I see you," he admits.

“Not an excuse to molest me in front of the public. My persona is so great, no one can control themselves in front of me.

His hand lingers, fingers tracing the edge of my shirt. Ignoring each of my words, his hand slides to my neck and grabs it, pushing me down on the car bonnet.

"When your shirt buttons are undone, you look like a fucking meal ready to devour. I can give you anything in this world, you name it—money, fame, good sex—just become mine, purely mine, from your soul to your hole," he whispers.

My face heats up.

"Yy--ouu."

Dmitri's smile grows wider; his lips lunge towards my neck and give a small peck. I freeze on the spot.

What the hell? I tried to push him, and to my surprise, he moved really easily.

"If it happens again, you can slap me across my face. I won't mind."

My jaw drops. Shock renders me speechless.

"Have you gone insane, you psycho?" I finally manage.

Dmitri chuckles, showcasing the dimples across his face. This asshole managed to smile even after all this insult. He sure is crazy.

"Do you even know shit about me?"  I demand.

Dmitri's eyes glint.

"Your name is Spencer Hayes, 25, fashion designer. You're a self-proclaimed fashion icon."

"Everyone knows that since I am quite famous, you know."  I said.

Dmitri continues while leaning on his bike.

"You're a social media enthusiast, love luxury brands, and have a penchant for high-society events."

My mind reels—this asshole is keeping a tag upon me.

"But that's not all, Spencer," Dmitri says.

His voice drops to a whisper; my blood runs cold. What does he know more?

"You belong to a royal British bloodline."

My heart skips a beat, and my legs start to tremble—what? How does he know?

"Wh—What are you talking about?" I stammer.

Dmitri's gaze intensifies.

"Your family's legacy, Spencer. The queen’s empire of Atlanska. You're a fucking prince—a spare, to be precise. Your parents disown—"

I clench my jaw; my hands form a stop sign.

"That's none of your business." Dmitri's smile grows wider.

"Oh really, but I have made it my business. You're a treasure, hidden away." He takes a step closer.

"And I feel it's my job to uncover every secret, every inch of you." I am unable to stand firm on my own legs.

"You have murdered someone in front of my eyes. You think you can charm me?"

Dmitri chuckles.

"Charm? No, Spencer. I'm just claiming what's mine, and you will follow my path."

His hand brushes mine, sending shivers.

His huge body hovers over my figure on my SUV, while he caresses my face and says, "You didn't slap me. Should I take it as an invitation, Mr. Little Prince?"