1. A Stranger’s Signature

Lena 

Sometimes, I feel like my life isn’t mine anymore. Like someone’s gaze clings to my back, watching me even when I’m completely alone. It’s a strange sensation—chilling, intimate, and suffocating all at once. Right now, in this very moment, the hairs on my arms rise as if invisible eyes are drilling into me.

I turn around abruptly.

And there he is.

Aaron King.

Tall, impeccably dressed in his signature black suit, every inch of him screams control and power. His presence is like a blade—sharp, polished, and cold. He’s standing only a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, his piercing gray eyes fixed on me.

For a split second, my chest seizes, as if the shadows in my mind have taken form in him. But then reality slams into me—of course it isn’t him. He isn’t the reason I feel watched. Aaron King doesn’t waste his time watching employees. He’s far too busy ruling his empire.

Still, my pulse stumbles.

“Miss Moore.” His voice is clipped, low, precise. It slices through the silence of the corridor. “Yes, sir.” I straighten instinctively, like every other new hire has been warned to do in his presence.

It’s only been two days since I started working at King Enterprises. Two days of constant pressure, deadlines that leave no room for mistakes, and whispers among employees that Aaron King is a man with no soul. He built this company from the ground up, and he guards it like a dragon guards its hoard—ruthless, unrelenting, untouchable.

He studies me, the way he studies everything—like he’s calculating, dissecting. My unease grows heavier.

“You’re late.”

I glance at my watch. I’m not late. I’m early. But correcting him feels dangerous, like stepping into fire willingly. “I—”

He cuts me off. “Being on time is the same as being late in my building. Early is expected. Do you understand?” My lips press together. “Yes, sir.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, more like amusement at how easily he unsettles me. Then, without another word, he walks past me, his cologne lingering like smoke.

I exhale slowly once he’s gone, pressing my hand to my chest. Aaron King unsettles me, yes, but not in the same way as the phantom eyes that follow me everywhere. His power is obvious, out in the open, worn like armor. The other feeling—the one that crawls beneath my skin, the one that stalks me in quiet moments—that’s different. 

That’s hidden. 

That’s worse.

As I move into the office floor, I hear murmurs around me. The sea of desks hums with quiet activity—phones ringing, keyboards clicking. It’s organized chaos, but everyone’s posture is the same: straight-backed, focused, wary. Aaron King’s presence looms over this entire place like an unspoken law.

“Lena!” A whisper calls from the next cubicle. Hannah, a fellow assistant, leans toward me. “You’re brave.” I blink. “What?”

“You didn’t faint under his stare. Most of us avoid even breathing too loudly when he’s nearby.” She grins nervously. “Good luck surviving here. King’s a perfectionist. He doesn’t tolerate weakness.”

Her words should scare me, but strangely, they only add fuel to the fire inside me. Maybe it’s the stubborn streak in me, or maybe it’s just foolishness. Either way, something about Aaron King makes me want to stand taller, not shrink.

I settle into my desk, trying to bury the prickling sensation of invisible eyes. But even as I start typing, I can’t shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, is still watching.

Hours pass in tense silence until Aaron King calls for me. His office is sleek, glass walls and cold steel accents, a perfect reflection of him. He’s seated behind his massive desk, eyes scanning through documents with an intensity that borders on obsessive.

“You challenged the projections in yesterday’s meeting.” His voice doesn’t rise; it doesn’t need to. The weight of it is enough. My stomach knots. “I—yes. I thought the numbers on the report didn’t account for market fluctuations, so I mentioned it.”

His eyes lift, gray and merciless, pinning me in place. “And you were right.”

The admission shocks me, though his face reveals nothing. Instead, he leans back, his gaze unwavering. “But don’t mistake being right for being clever. This company doesn’t run on opinions. It runs on discipline.”

My throat tightens, but I refuse to look away. For a moment, his stare feels like a challenge, like he’s daring me to flinch.

And I don’t.

Something flickers in his expression—something unreadable, gone as quickly as it came. “Dismissed.”

I leave his office, heart hammering, not sure if I’ve just won a tiny battle or walked straight into a war I can’t win.

At night, when I finally return to my apartment, the strange feeling comes rushing back. The silence in my place is too thick, the shadows too deep. I flick on the light—and freeze.

Roses.

Dozens of them. Blood-red, fresh, scattered across the coffee table, the counter, even the floor. Their scent is overwhelming, cloying, as if the flowers themselves are suffocating me. My breath stutters. I didn’t buy these. Nobody has a key to my apartment—nobody except me.

A knock at my door jolts me. I whirl around. My neighbor, Mrs. Collins, stands there with her groceries. She peers inside curiously, her eyes widening.

“My, Lena! How romantic. Looks like you have a secret admirer.” She laughs, oblivious to the dread pooling in my stomach.

Admirer. The word makes my skin crawl.

I force a smile and invite her in, more out of fear than politeness. If someone is still here—hiding, watching—I can’t face them alone. As she sits on my couch, chatting about nothing, I move through my apartment in a frenzy, searching every corner, every shadow. Closet—empty. 

Bathroom—empty. 

Kitchen—empty.

Then I reach my bedroom.

Something white catches my eye on the nightstand. A folded note. Hands trembling, I pick it up and unfold it. Four words, written in dark ink, curl across the page:

“I like watching you.”

My breath leaves me in a rush. My pulse pounds so loud it fills my ears. And just as I clutch the note, a floorboard creaks somewhere behind me.