I felt her eyes before I saw her.
It started with small things.
A pause in conversation when I entered a room.
A reflection in the glass that lingered a second too long.
Footsteps that slowed when mine did.
She wasn't following me.
She was studying me.
And that was far more dangerous.
—
I noticed it first in the elevator.
She stood behind me, silent, her perfume too sharp, too familiar. The doors closed with a soft chime, trapping us in a mirrored box of tension.
"You've changed," she said suddenly.
I didn't turn around. "People grow."
"No," she replied. "You've shifted."
I met her gaze through the mirror. Her eyes searched my face like she was trying to peel off my skin.
"Do you dream?" she asked.
The question startled me.
"Everyone does."
She swallowed. "Do you ever dream… of things that haven't happened yet?"
Ah.
So she felt it too.
I smiled faintly. "That sounds like anxiety."
Her lips pressed together. "Or guilt."
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped out without answering.
—
That afternoon, my assistant told me someone had requested access to my archived files.
"Who?" I asked casually.
"She didn't leave a name," he said. "But she knew the system."
I already knew who it was.
She'd never learned restraint.
—
By evening, I confirmed it.
She had tried to access records from before the merger. Old drafts. Initial agreements. Documents from my first downfall.
Things she shouldn't even know existed.
That's when it hit me—
She wasn't just suspicious.
She was afraid.
—
I confronted her that night at home.
She sat in the living room, lights off, phone glowing in her hands. When I entered, she didn't jump.
She'd been waiting.
"Tell me," she said quietly. "What are you hiding?"
I placed my bag down slowly. "What makes you think I'm hiding anything?"
"Because you look at us like you already know how this ends."
The air went still.
"That's paranoia talking," I replied gently.
She laughed bitterly. "You never used to talk like that."
I stepped closer. "You never used to lie so badly."
Her eyes flashed. "Careful."
"Or what?" I asked. "You'll tell him I'm unstable?"
She flinched.
There it was.
The truth.
—
She stood abruptly. "I know you're doing something."
I leaned in, voice soft. "Then prove it."
She stared at me for a long time.
"I will," she whispered.
—
That night, I locked my door for the first time in years.
Not because I was afraid—
But because the hunt had officially begun.
And this time…
I wasn't the prey.
—