Like her.
The words settle over Julian like a sudden wave. He can't deny it. He's already admitted it to himself, quietly but completely.
Julian shrugs, a small, unreadable smile playing on his lips.
"Oh, wow," Eugene teases, voice dripping with mock surprise. "So you're admitting it. That you like her."
"Well," Julian says, hesitating as his gaze meets Eugene's, "I guess, yeah, maybe? But it's…" His voice falters for a moment. "It's just… a wave of emotion. Something that'll probably fade."
Eugene squints, clearly unconvinced.
"No, I don't think so. I know you. You don't like a woman that easily."
Julian pauses, caught off guard by the truth in his friend's words. Eugene is right. He hasn't felt this way about anyone since Hannah—all those years ago. He's not the kind of man who falls for someone lightly.
And maybe that's what scares him the most.
Early morning, just past five. Grace's eyes flutter open slowly, heavy with sleep. She turns her head and sees her mother lying peacefully beside her, lost in a deep, undisturbed sleep. Relief washes over her—her mother made it back safely last night, just after Grace returned to the hotel room.
Quietly, Grace slips out of bed and pads barefoot to the living room. She stops in front of the large window that frames the mountain outside, its lush green slopes glowing softly in the first light of dawn. The sun slowly rises, spilling golden light across the peaks, painting the sky in hues of pink and amber.
Her breath catches.
"Father," she murmurs reverently, voice barely above a whisper, "the world you created is beautiful… You're magnificent…"
Her gaze lingers on the breathtaking view a moment longer before she turns to reach for the bottle of water resting on the minibar. Just as she lifts her phone, it vibrates in her hand.
Curious, Grace unlocks the screen. A new message from an anonymous number.
She taps it open.
Her heart stalls.
It's a photo—clear and unmistakable. Her wrapped in a towel, vulnerable and exposed, with Julian stepping quietly into his hotel room.
For a moment, she can't breathe. She blinks, disbelief clouding her mind. The weight of the image presses down on her chest.
"It's him again…" she whispers, voice trembling.
She tries to scroll up the conversation, but it won't move. Panic prickles at her skin.
Then it hits her—he's texting from a different number this time.
Swiftly, she scrolls back through her messages and finds the earlier texts. Different number. Another disguise.
"So he's using fake numbers…" she murmurs, the cold reality settling over her like a shadow.
Grace has suspected this all along, but actually seeing the stalker using multiple numbers sends a fresh wave of chills down her spine. She taps the photo and zooms in. The two faces are sharp and unmistakable—Julian's, calm and composed, and hers, vulnerable and wrapped only in a towel.
"This is getting insane…" she whispers, setting the phone down gently on the minibar. Her eyes drift upward, closing as she leans back against the counter.
How far is he following me? she wonders. At brunch with Professor Julian, I was still near campus... but now? I'm hours away from L Bingo.
She shakes her head, a mix of confusion and unease twisting in her gut. Her gaze slides toward the open bedroom door, where the dim outline of her mother rests in peaceful sleep. Though the room is mostly dark, the silhouette is clear enough.
Do I have to tell Mom? The thought lingers, heavy.
She knows she probably should, but with the ongoing legal battle her mother is fighting—fighting off frauds who stole money and smeared her name—Grace doesn't want to add another worry to her plate.
She exhales slowly, feeling the weight of the decision settle deep inside her. The darkness around her seems to press in tighter.
Her mind drifts back to Julian.
Maybe I should tell Professor Julian about this, she thinks. He's in the picture. Literally.
She picks up her phone, thumb hovering over the "New Text" button—but then freezes.
No. I don't want to drag him into this chaos. This stalker is focused on me, not Julian. If I can just handle this, then maybe Julian stays out of it.
Her thoughts spin in circles, too many to grasp all at once. But one thing is clear—a cold shiver races down her spine, and a sudden, prickling sensation makes her feel watched.
She glances around the room, eyes landing on the bathroom door, closed and dark. For a split second, her mind races.
What if he's hiding in there?
It doesn't make sense, but fear pushes her forward. She moves slowly, each step cautious, and reaches the bathroom door. With a trembling hand, she opens it.
The bathroom is pitch black, no light on. Empty.
She lets out a shaky breath, heart pounding in the silence.
"No one's here…" Grace murmurs, a strange sense of comfort creeping back in.
Just then, her mother's soft, hoarse voice floats in from the bedroom. "Grace, are you awake already?"
"I'm going back to bed," Grace replies, switching off her phone's screen and quietly making her way back to the bedroom.
She slips beneath the covers and pulls the blanket snug over herself, the silence of the hotel room wrapping around her like a heavy shroud. But her mind won't still—thoughts racing in frantic loops.
What if that guy threatens to upload that photo on the school's community website? Or worse… She shakes her head, trying to shut down the spiraling fears. No. Let's not go there. Not yet.
Still, her fingers clutch the blanket tighter, knuckles whitening.
But how can I not think too far? This guy has already followed me all the way here.
Suddenly, she jerks upright in bed, heart hammering. The memory of the key system malfunction flashes vividly.
Could that stalker be behind it?
A cold shiver snakes down her spine at the thought. If it's true, this is far bigger—and far more dangerous—than she first imagined.
Her gaze drifts across the room to her mother, still asleep, peaceful and unaware. Part of her aches to wake her, to spill everything out, but another part knows it would only bring overwhelming worry.
Grace lies back down with a heavy sigh, mind clouded and restless.
For now, she's too exhausted to make any decisions. The weight of uncertainty presses down, and all she can do is lie still and wait.
"Have a beautiful morning all to yourself, Grace. I'm off to the conference now. Don't forget to check out by eleven," her mother says, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she opens the hotel room door.
"Okay, Mom. Have a good time at the conference," Grace replies, dabbing sunscreen onto her face while peering into the mirror.
The door clicks shut behind her mother, the echo lingering for a moment before silence settles in.
Grace studies her reflection for a second longer, then reaches for her lip serum. She glides it across her lips, presses them together once, and nods at herself with a small, satisfied smile.
"All done," she murmurs, her voice light with the simple pleasure of feeling ready.
She turns, heading for the small round table where her backpack and phone lie waiting. Her fingers brush the phone screen—then freeze.
Her body stills.
Right… the stalker guy…
The thought lands like a stone in her stomach. Her chest tightens. Her fingertips tingle.
What if he's out there again? Waiting? Watching? Ready to follow me around all day like yesterday…
The air feels thinner now. Her balance teeters. The room spins slightly.
Since waking at nine, she'd nearly forgotten him—forgotten the unease, the shadow of fear. She had planned a calm, productive morning at a cozy café nearby, intent on writing her novel and working on her thesis. But now the fear resurfaces like a ripple in still water, and dizziness sweeps over her in a slow, sickening wave.
Grace closes her eyes.
Breathe.
A slow inhale. A slower exhale. She counts silently. Again.
She shifts her thoughts—deliberately—toward gratitude. Her breath steadies as she thinks of warm sunlight, of her mother's presence, of the half-written stories that still call to her.
Focus on the good. Don't let fear write the story today.
But a knot remains in her chest.
If only Professor Julian weren't somehow connected to this… she thinks, her brow furrowing. If he weren't involved, I would've already called the police. But with him in the picture, I really don't want to bother him. Not unless I have to…
It's Monday again, and autumn has settled decisively over the campus. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves, and the trees lining the paths wear shades of amber and crimson like robes of quiet fire.
Grace hurries along the main walkway, her laptop clutched tightly to her chest, her phone in her right hand. She wears a black T-shirt under a loose blue flannel shirt, paired with wide boxy pants that swish slightly as she walks. The wind nips at her sleeves, but she barely notices.
It's 8:25 a.m.
The last thing she wants is to be late for her major class. Not just because of grades—though those matter—but because she hates the awkwardness of walking in late. Especially for this class. It's the kind where nearly every student shows up on time, if not early. The thought of being the one person who enters mid-lecture, all eyes briefly shifting toward her, makes her speed up even more.
She rounds the corner of the path leading toward the lecture hall—and collides with someone.
Her phone slips from her hand and clatters to the ground.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" says a woman on the other side of the bump, bending slightly as well.