— It happened in the lobby of the hotel.

You’d just returned from lunch, a bag in one hand and your phone in the other, scrolling through a message from Alan. He was upstairs in the suite, rehearsing lines for an upcoming reading. You smiled as you read his words—something about missing you already, even after only an hour apart.

You didn’t notice the woman right away. She was seated near the fireplace, flipping through a magazine with too much focus. When she looked up, your eyes met briefly—then lingered. You gave a polite nod and moved toward the lifts.

Her footsteps behind you were soft, but fast. A second later, you felt pain in the side of your head.

The world tilted. You stumbled into the wall, dazed, your bag hitting the ground. Something sharp—a purse, maybe, or the edge of her phone—had caught your temple. There was blood, quick and hot, sliding down to your cheek.

“Wh0re,” she hissed. “You don’t deserve him. You’ve never deserved him.”

You turned, hand pressed to your bleeding skin, and truly saw her now. Mid-forties. Expensive coat. Hands trembling. Eyes filled with the kind of fury that doesn’t come from disappointment—but delusion.

She rushed you again. This time, you braced, blocking her flailing arms. A hotel clerk shouted. Someone pulled her back, her voice rising over the scuffle.

“You’re ruining his legacy! You’ve ruined everything!”

It was only once security had restrained her that you realized she knew far more than she should—details about your life, your wedding, your routines. She’d studied you.

By the time Alan arrived—face pale, jaw clenched—you were seated on a couch, a cold cloth to your temple. He dropped to his knees beside you and cupped your face, his voice a low rasp. “Tell me you’re okay. Please.”