We'd been in London for three days, sticking to busy streets, avoiding anywhere we could be cornered.
But as I left the coffee shop on Thursday morning, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
Something — someone — was behind me.
I caught the faintest reflection in the window of the café next door: a man in a dark coat, head bent low, hands buried deep in his pockets. My stomach turned cold.
I quickened my pace, weaving through pedestrians, and risked another glance.
Gone. Just… gone.
When Brandon rejoined me a few minutes later with a bag of pastries, he saw my unease. I told him it was nothing. I didn't want to sound paranoid.
But my hands wouldn't stop trembling.
Then on Thursday evening, we came back late from dinner, talking quietly, while the streetlights glinted off the wet pavement.
Brandon slid the keycard into the door. It clicked open far too easily.
"Did you leave it unlocked?" he asked me.
"I… I don't think so."
The room looked normal at first.
Then I saw it: a scarf from my backpack, now draped neatly over the armchair. A hairbrush I'd left in the bathroom, lying on the desk.
No signs of forced entry. No theft. Just… moved, touched.
Brandon checked every corner while I stood frozen in the middle of the room, my pulse roaring in my ears.
We didn't talk much that night. He sat up late, awake in the armchair, pretending to watch TV. I lay stiff under the covers, certain I could still smell Mark's faint scent.
*****
The first text came two days later:
You're making a mistake. He's not who you think he is.
No name. No number I recognised.
An hour later, another one:
I'm the only one who's ever really loved you.
I deleted them before Brandon saw, telling myself that ignoring him would make it stop.
It didn't.
On Sunday afternoon, we returned to the room to find a small package outside the door. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, was a pressed white daisy.
Similar to one he'd given me, after every fight.
The kind I'd throw away each time.
The next day, we decided to have lunch at a busy market, shoulder to shoulder with strangers.
As we left the cafe, Brandon went still, his eyes narrowing at something over my shoulder.
"Amelia… don't turn around. Just… walk with me."
We moved quickly through the crowd.
Only when we were back on the main street did he tell me.
"I saw him. Across the market. Watching you."
My knees buckled, and he caught me before I fell.
From that moment on, I didn't leave Brandon's side. Not for a second.
-----
The following day was a drizzly Tuesday, the kind of day when London feels smaller, streets muffled by mist.
We'd ducked into a quiet café off a side street, just to get warm. Brandon ordered at the counter while I found a table in the corner, my back to the wall.
The bell over the door jingled.
And he walked in.
Mark.
Calm, deliberate, dressed like any other businessman stopping for a coffee — except for the smile. That faint, knowing smile that told me he'd been watching. Waiting.
"Hello, Amelia."
He slid into the seat opposite me without asking. My fingers curled around my coat so tightly I thought I might rip it.
"I've been looking for you," he said softly, like we were old friends meeting by chance.
My mouth was dry. "You need to leave."
"I'm not here to cause trouble. I just want to talk. You've got it all wrong, you know. I'm not the monster you've been telling people I am." His eyes flicked toward the counter where Brandon stood, oblivious. "And I'm not here to hurt you. Unless you keep making this difficult."
I swallowed hard, refusing to give him the fear he wanted to see. "You don't get to decide what's difficult anymore."
He leaned in, lowering his voice. "You think he can protect you? You think he understands you like I do? He'll leave. But me… I'm still here. You won't find anyone who loves you except me."
Brandon returned then, holding the mugs tightly. His gaze darted between us, instantly tense.
"Mark," he said evenly. "You should go."
"I'm not going anywhere," Mark replied, leaning back like he owned the place. "You don't know what she's capable of. She —"
"That's enough," Brandon cut in, his voice firm but steady. "We're leaving."
I stood, my legs trembling but my voice cold as stone.
"Stay away from me." I hissed at Mark while Brandon guided me toward the door.
Mark didn't move. He just watched as we walked out, his smile returning.
And I knew — this wasn't over. Not yet.
*****
Two days later, we were in the busy market street near the underground station. Brandon and I pretended to browse the stalls, our heads close together, pretending to act normal. My pulse hammered, because I knew he'd be watching.
And he was.
A shadow at the edge of the crowd. His hat low on his face, obscuring his eyes. That smug, knowing tilt of his head.
By the time we moved on, I could feel him following. Not close enough to draw attention, but always there. Brandon squeezed my hand and led us deeper into the maze of streets.
Then a woman screamed at her child who had run away from her; people rushed to help; market traders all watching the commotion; and I felt hands grab me and the market spun around me in a flurry. I shouted out to Brandon, but my cries got lost in all the chaos around me. I kicked and wriggled, but Mark overpowered me. He was twice my size and ridiculously strong.
Before I knew it, I was in a car and someone was already driving away. Mark held my arms tightly. I spat in his face.
"Amelia," Mark's voice sang out, slick with mock concern. "We need to talk."
"You ran so far," he said softly. "But you can't run forever."
"Where are you taking me?"
"It's a surprise darling."
"I'm not your darling, I'm not your anything." I snapped at him. Hiding how scared I was.
"Now, now, Amelia, after everything we've been through? After everything I've done for you?"
I stayed quiet and watched outside the windows of the car, trying to figure out where we were going.
Before long, we arrived at a construction site on the edge of the financial district. Half-built offices, scaffolding snaking into the sky.
Mark was an architect and had access to many building sites. This wasn't good. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.