Married to My Stalker
Nova’s fingers curled tighter around the journal.
Later that night, the house was quiet. The kind of calm that hums with tension just beneath the surface. Nova sat cross-legged on the rug in Damian’s office, the journal now open in her lap. Pages lay scattered around her, some handwritten in English, others in rough Romanian, Damian translated. Between the faded ink and cryptic references, it read like a war map disguised as a memoir. Damian stood over a desk by the window, speaking low into a secure burner phone in Romanian. His voice was taut. Sharp.