The house was silent. Julian had left early, and Liza wandered toward his study with a restless curiosity she could no longer contain. The door creaked softly as she opened it, and the scent of him—tobacco, leather, and a subtle heat—washed over her like a wave.
Her eyes fell on a hidden drawer, its key cleverly tucked behind a small bust of Virgil. Her pulse quickened as she retrieved it and unlocked the drawer.
Inside were photographs. Hundreds of them. Every one captured her in moments she thought private: walking through the city streets, sitting in a café, laughing with friends. Even the blurred shots from her apartment window during the months apart. Her stomach tightened.
She sank into Julian's chair, clutching one to her chest. The intimacy of his obsession made her shiver. His attention, even from afar, had always been his quiet, controlling presence over her life.
The front door slammed. Julian was home early. Her heart leapt. She pressed the photograph to her chest, imagining the look in his eyes, the quiet dominance that had always followed her like a shadow. She was caught between fear, desire, and something far darker—a craving for the power he held over her.