The Intruder
I drove home with the kind of focus you only get when you’re trying not to think about something.
Didn’t work.
Her voice kept looping in my head—smooth, sharp, deliberate. The kind of tone you didn’t forget, even if you wanted to. I could still hear the faint, almost smug pause she’d taken before she said “Nice shirt.” Like she’d been standing somewhere close enough to count the damn buttons.
That’s what kept gnawing at me.
Not just what she said. When she said it.
It meant she’d been watching the whole time—watching me sit in that cafe for hours like a fool, watching me leave, watching me cross the street. Hell, she’d probably seen me sit in my car across from Ray Maya before I even went in.
How long had she been following me?
And why?
The streets blurred past as I drove, headlights streaking in the dark like fireflies in a jar. Every now and then I’d catch my reflection in the side mirror—jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. Not fear. Not exactly anger, either. Something in between.
Curiosity’s ugly cousin.
I told myself it didn’t matter. She could play her little games somewhere else. I wasn’t some errand boy she could toy with.
But then again, she’d picked me.
Out of everyone in this city, she’d decided I was “exactly the kind of bastard” she needed. That meant she’d done her homework. She knew who I was, what I did. Maybe more than she should.
And that… that got under my skin in a way I didn’t like.
I turned into my street, tires crunching over loose gravel. My place sat at the end of the block, tucked behind high gates and taller hedges. The kind of house that gave off stay the hell away energy.
The gates slid open with a slow mechanical groan. I Pulled into the driveway. Killed the engine.
The air smelled like rain that hadn’t fallen yet—thick, heavy, electric.
Inside, the quiet hit me first. No TV, no music, just the faint hum of the central air. My shoes echoed on the marble floor as I headed toward the stairs.
That’s when Sarah stepped out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Mr Ronny,” she said, her voice careful. “Miss Diana came by earlier. Said she wanted to see you.”
I exhaled through my nose, slow. “And?”
“She waited about an hour, then left. Said she’d come back.”
“Of course she did.”
Sarah gave me a small, almost apologetic smile. “Should I tell her you’re not home next time?”
I almost said yes—hell, I should have—but what was the point? Diana had a way of turning up whether she was invited or not. She treated ‘no’ like a challenge.
“Thanks, Sarah,” I muttered instead, and started up the stairs.
The second-floor hallway was dim, shadows stretching long across the hardwood. I loosened my tie as I walked, peeling it off and shoving it into my pocket. My head was pounding—not from the day’s work, but from the woman whose name I didn’t know, whose face I’d never seen.
I told myself Diana was a bigger problem right now.
She wasn’t.
Not even close.
I’d made it clear to her from the start—I didn’t do love. I didn’t do relationships. What we had was just sex, no strings, no expectations. She’d agreed. At least, she’d pretended to. But every time I turned around, she was trying to rewrite the rules.
And I didn’t have the patience for that.
Not tonight. Not after her.
I stepped into my bedroom and started stripping off my clothes. Shirt first, tossed onto the chair in the corner. Then my belt, pants, socks. My watch hit the dresser with a soft thud.
The hot spray of the shower hit me a second later, steam curling up and fogging the glass. I closed my eyes, letting the heat sink into my skin, the water drum against the back of my neck.
But she was still there.
Not Diana—the other one.
The ghost of her voice clung to me like cigarette smoke.
You passed.
For what? A patience test? An obedience test? She’d talked about a case, but hadn’t given me a single detail. No name. No context. No reason why it should matter to me.
And yet…
I wanted to know.
Hell, I needed to know.
What the hell kind of case needed someone who could sit for four hours without flinching? What kind of job was worth testing me like that?
And more importantly—what did she see when she looked at me?
I pressed my palms to the cool tile, water sliding down my arms. Told myself I’d forget her by morning. Told myself I’d delete the call log, block the number, and go back to business as usual.
But that voice didn’t sound like someone you forgot.
It sounded like someone who’d show up again whether you wanted her to or not.
I turned off the water and stepped out, steam rolling past me into the cooler air of the bedroom. Grabbed a towel, ran it over my hair, across my chest.
That’s when I saw it.
The slightest shift of shadow in my peripheral vision.
I froze.
The towel hung motionless in my hands as my eyes adjusted. The shape was wrong. Too solid to be a shadow. Too still to be a trick of the light.
Someone was sitting on my bed.
Sitting there like they belonged.
My pulse spiked hard, pounding in my ears.
I tightened my grip on the towel, the air suddenly too thin. The steam from the bathroom drifted around us, curling at the edges of the intruder’s silhouette.
I took one slow step forward.
“What,” I said, my voice low, tight, “are you doing here?”
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