I first noticed her three months ago.

A shadow at the edge of my vision. A presence just out of reach. Not close enough to be a threat, but never far enough to be a coincidence.

She was clever. No obvious patterns, no predictable routes. Always in a crowd, never in direct sight for too long. If I hadn’t been trained to notice the slightest shifts in my environment, I might have brushed it off.

But I was me.

And she was following me.

The first time I saw her properly was in the reflection of a car window outside my office. Dark eyes peeking from beneath the brim of a cap, lips parted like she hadn’t expected me to turn my head.

Rookie mistake.

The second time, she was a little braver. Sitting three rows behind me at a restaurant, sipping on a drink she barely touched.

I almost laughed.

She was watching me. And the strangest part? I liked it.

The knowledge that someone—this pretty little shadow—was tracking my every move, studying me, obsessing over me the way people did with things they could never have.

It was flattering, really.

Most men would be disturbed. Hire security. Maybe even confront her outright. But where was the fun in that?

So I let it continue.

I let her think she was unseen, unnoticed. Let her linger in the corners of my world, her fascination growing by the day.

Until tonight.

Tonight, when she thought she was being so careful, tucked into the back of the dimly lit bar where I met clients.

I set my drink down, watching as she quickly looked away, feigning interest in the menu. Amateur.

Leaning back, I tilted my head, catching her gaze and holding it.

And then—slow, deliberate—I smirked.

The glass nearly slipped from her fingers.

Ah. So she finally realized.

She wasn’t stalking me.

I was hunting her.