6. Twisted Affection 

Kian

I shouldn’t care.

I shouldn’t feel this rage burning in my chest every time I see her laugh at something he says. But there it is—the bitter sting of jealousy that eats at me like acid, raw and unstoppable.

On my screens, she appears in crystal clarity. I have her office, her building lobby, her apartment hallway—all angles covered. Tonight, I watch her through a feed from her office, where Aaron fucking King stands a little too close, his hand brushing her shoulder as he points to something on her tablet.

My jaw tightens. He doesn’t even belong in her world, not really. Too old, too practiced. A man who knows how to wield power like a weapon. And she—sweet, bright Lena—doesn’t see it. She doesn’t see how his gaze lingers a little too long.

She doesn’t realize that while he charms her, I am the one keeping her safe. I know her routines, her smiles, her sighs when she’s tired. I know she prefers peppermint tea over coffee when her stomach feels off, and that she always tucks her hair behind her left ear when she’s nervous. He doesn’t know her like I do.

And yet, she gives him her smile.

That fucking smile…it burns me alive.

The next morning, I test a theory. She wakes at 7:13 a.m., just like she always does. She orders a ride-share for 8:05. I block it with a quick adjustment in the system. She tries again. Same result. By the time she realizes none of the cars are showing, it’s 8:20 and she’s already late.

I pull my car up to the corner, windows tinted, and watch as she stands outside her building in a pale blue dress, her phone clutched in her hand. She’s frustrated, her brows pinched, lips pressed together. I can almost hear her muttering under her breath.

And God—it thrills me.

Watching her struggle, watching her little world unravel just slightly—it means she’ll start questioning things. She’ll feel unsettled. She’ll wonder who’s reliable, who’s there to help her. And that’s when she’ll look around and realize… it’s only me.

She doesn’t see my car idling across the street. She doesn’t notice the way my hand tightens on the steering wheel as Aaron’s number flashes across her phone. She answers with relief in her voice, probably telling him she’s late.

My lips curl in a humorless smile. He won’t be there forever. I’ll make sure of that.

Sabotaging her emails is even easier.

A few reroutes here, a delayed delivery there, and suddenly she looks like she’s ignoring clients. I sit back in my chair, watching her confusion as she stares at her laptop, chewing her lip nervously. I know she’ll get scolded for it. I know Aaron will look at her differently if she appears incompetent.

And that’s the point.

Because she shines too brightly in his presence. And I can’t allow her to see him as her savior. No, she has to break. She has to bend. She has to learn what it feels like to fall apart—and who else but me can piece her back together?

I leave her little reminders, too. Anonymous notes slid under her door.

You’re not alone.

Someone is watching.

Enough to scare her, to make her paranoid. Then, later, a single flower was left in her apartment, placed in a vase on her table. To show her that even in fear, there is comfort. My comfort.

Her world is a balance I control—fear and relief, pain and comfort. I hold the scales. And it’s intoxicating.

One evening, I follow her again. She eats alone at a small café, stirring her soup absently, her eyes distant. I sit in my car across the street, the camera lens pressed against the glass. Every detail is mine to keep—the slope of her neck, the way she brushes her hair back with a sigh, the faint wrinkle of her brow when she checks her phone for a message that doesn’t come.

When her phone finally buzzes, her entire face changes. She grins. Not even a smile, but a fucking grin. This gives me the idea that she enjoys teasing him, that she is longing for his phone call. But why?

Heat surges through me when I see her twisting the strand of her hair when she talks. She does it exactly like the girls in the movies who are trying really hard to flirt, and something inside me burns. 

It's not warmth but fire. That smile isn’t mine, and it should be.

I grip the camera so tightly I nearly crack it. My reflection stares back at me in the dark glass, eyes shadowed and hollow. I whisper under my breath, voice rough and trembling with obsession. “Why waste your time with a man twice your age when I’m right here, my sweet Lena?”

My plans sharpen over the following days.

I plant small seeds—emails twisted into misunderstandings, delayed messages that create tension. In the shadows, I record everything. Every glance Aaron gives her, every word he says. I replay the videos, watching with a kind of masochistic fury, studying the way he stands too close, the way she blushes under his gaze.

It makes me sick. And yet, I can’t stop watching. But soon, I won’t need to watch. Soon, I’ll act.

The night comes like a secret invitation.

The city sleeps, but I don’t. I slip into her apartment with the spare key I made weeks ago. The sound of the lock clicking is soft, almost reverent, like entering a church. Her world smells faintly of lavender and soap, so different from the steel and smoke of mine.

I move through the rooms quietly, like a shadow made flesh. In her bedroom, she lies sleeping, the curve of her body wrapped in blankets, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm I’ve memorized.

On her nightstand is a framed photo. She’s smiling in it, sunlight in her hair. I take it in my hand, feeling the weight of it, before sliding it into my pocket. In its place, I leave one of my own—a candid photo of her I took weeks ago, when she didn’t know I was watching. She’ll wake and wonder who put it there. 

She’ll know someone has been close, closer than anyone should be.

I stand over her for a long time, just watching. The lines of her face in sleep are softer, vulnerable. My chest tightens, my throat constricts with something between love and madness.

Then her phone lights up on the nightstand, buzzing softly.

Aaron’s name.

The sight of it slices through me like a blade. My fists clench at my sides, every nerve in my body screaming. He’s trying to take her from me. He’s stealing what’s mine.

Leaning down, I whisper into the dark, my voice low and feverish:

“You’ll see soon, Lena. He isn’t the one you need. He never was. It’s me. Only me.”

I slip past the dimly lit corridor, the hum of the building’s late-night silence wrapping around me like a cloak. Aaron King’s office door is a fortress—secured, coded, untouchable to most. But not to me. With a quiet grin, I ease the lock open, the soft click satisfying in my ears.

Stepping inside, I inhale deeply. His scent lingers here—power, precision, arrogance. My gaze sweeps across the polished desk, the perfectly aligned files, the sleek glass shelves that scream of control. I trail my fingers along the mahogany surface, careful not to disturb anything, yet leaving an invisible mark of my presence.

I don’t want him to see me. Not yet. I want him to feel me. To sense someone slipped into his world, close enough to brush shoulders with his empire. I lean against his chair, imagining his expression if he knew I sat here, soaking in the life he guards so obsessively.

Then—sharp, shrill. The security alarm blares, cutting through the silence like a blade. My lips curl. 

Perfect. 

He’ll know I was here. But he won’t know how. With a laugh under my breath, I dart out into the night, unseen, leaving only a ghost behind.