Obsession In Glass: A Watched Novel

He knows the exact pitch of my crying on Sunday mornings.

He's been watching me for eleven months. My apartment stays at sixty-eight degrees because he adjusts it remotely. The elevator is always waiting. The doorman knows my dry cleaning schedule — because he reports it.

I'm a forensic data analyst. I trace shell companies and fraud patterns for the FBI. I am very, very good at finding what people hide.

So when I trace every thread back to one man — Roman Cavalli, billionaire, thirty-second floor, the tower across the street — I do what any rational person would do.

I buy a high-resolution camera. And I start watching back.

I should have called the FBI. I should have disappeared.

I've done it before. Five years rebuilding myself after a man who tracked my location every six minutes and called it love. I know what surveillance looks like. I know what it costs.

This isn't that.

When I knock on his door with enough evidence to put him away for fifteen years, he doesn't deny it. He shows me the room instead. Screens covering every wall. Every screen showing my apartment. He's memorized the shape of my sleep.

His hands shake when he finally touches me.

And the worst part — the part I can't file away or cross-reference or explain — is that being known like this, by someone who's studied every fracture and stayed anyway, feels nothing like the last time.

It feels like the most dangerous thing I've ever wanted.

She watches back. He falls apart. Neither of them can stop.

Dark billionaire obsession. Who-watches-who power play. Morally grey everything. A heroine who turns the camera around.

Intended for mature readers. Contains steamy scenes, obsessive hero, and a love story built on the edge of a line neither one should cross.