Obsession Fueled by Hatred

Chapter one

People often assume things about me before I even speak.s

Maybe it’s the way I walk, or the way my body fills a room without asking permission.

Maybe it’s the dresses my company makes me wear—short, elegant, fitted in ways that leave very little to the imagination. Or maybe it’s simply because men like to look, and when they look too long, they forget that I am a person before I am a picture.

I’ve learned not to care.

The restaurant was already busy when I arrived that evening. Fridays always were. Soft music floated through the air, glasses clinked, and the low hum of conversations blended into something almost soothing. I tied my hair back, adjusted the hem of my black dress—company policy, high-end, “appeal to luxury clients”—and stepped onto the floor.

I liked working here. Not because it was easy, but because it reminded me that I could stand my ground in a world that often tried to push women into smaller spaces.

That was when I noticed him.

He wasn’t loud. He didn’t need to be. He sat with a group of men near the corner, dressed impeccably, posture relaxed but commanding. There was something about the way people subtly leaned toward him when he spoke, like gravity worked differently around his table.

I didn’t know his name then. But I would later.

Raymond.

When I approached their table, his eyes lifted—not hurried, not curious, just steady. The kind of look that felt less like being seen and more like being assessed. I kept my expression neutral, professional.

“Good evening,” I said. “What can I get you?”

He smiled then. Not warmly. Not kindly. Just enough to suggest amusement.

As the night went on, the drinks kept coming. Laughter grew louder. His friends loosened, words spilling more freely than they should have. Raymond stayed sharp longer than the rest, watching, observing. And when he finally drank too much, the shift was subtle—but noticeable.

His gaze lingered.

His voice lowered when he spoke to me.

I ignored it. I always did.

But as the evening stretched on, his comments became… careless. Softly spoken words meant only for me. Things that made my jaw tighten and my patience thin. His hand brushed my wrist once—too deliberate to be accidental.

I stepped back immediately.

“Please don’t,” I said quietly, meeting his eyes without fear.

For a moment, something dark flickered there. Surprise, maybe. Or disbelief. Men like him were not often refused.

I finished my shift with my head held high. I did not look back.

Outside, the air was cool against my skin, grounding me. I thought that would be the end of it. Just another man, another night, another story I’d forget.

I was wrong.

Across the street, leaning casually against a black car that looked as expensive as it did dangerous, Raymond watched me. The city lights carved shadows across his face, making him look almost unreal.

“Let me take you home,” he said, as if it were a suggestion, not an assumption.

“I’ll take the bus,” I replied.

He smiled again—slow this time. “I’ll follow it.”

I stared at him, incredulous. Angry. Tired.

Eventually, against my better judgment, I accepted the ride—not because I wanted to, but because I refused to let him turn my safety into a game.

The drive was quiet.

Too quiet.

When he dropped me off, he didn’t follow me inside. He didn’t touch me again. He just watched, eyes unreadable, as I walked away.

That should have been relief.

Instead, something settled deep in my chest—a feeling I didn’t yet have a name for.

I didn’t know then that this man would become a storm in my life.

I only knew that from the moment I pushed him away, something between us had already begun.