My stalker broke into my penthouse. My board hired a bodyguard.
They sent Dominic Kade. Six-three. Doesn't smile. Speaks in monosyllables.
I recognized him immediately.
Two years ago, I humiliated him on a live podcast in front of two million listeners. He sued me. We settled.
Now he lives in my guest room.
He has a German Shepherd named Basil who is afraid of plastic bags and already loves me more than any man ever has.
Then I found the manuscript.
Dominic writes romance novels under a secret pen name. Bestsellers. The female lead is a tech CEO named "Jessamine" who talks too fast and smells like grapefruit shampoo.
She's me. The love scenes are about me.
He's been writing love letters to a woman he sued, and three million people bought them.
"For the one who doesn't know. I hope you never find out. I hope you do."
I know now. He doesn't know I know.
And Book 4? He's writing scenes that haven't happened yet.
I want them to.