From Savior to Obsessed Stalker

The passcode to Conrad Ellison' s private villa was my birthday, a gesture I once thought was the most romantic in the world. Now, it felt like a key to a gilded cage. I walked through his silent mansion, a cold knot of unease growing in my stomach.

Then I heard it-a low moan from his bedroom. The door was ajar, revealing Conrad on his knees, clutching a lavender silk scarf. He was touching himself, breathing one name: "Kassidy." My stepsister.

My blood ran cold. The man I loved, the man I thought was pure, desired her, not me. As I stumbled back, his phone buzzed. It was Kassidy. "Conrad? You sound... out of breath." He snapped, "What do you want?" She asked if the rumors of our marriage were true. His reply hit me like a physical blow: "Never. She' s a delusional, pathetic woman. I wish she would just disappear."

He admitted he only tolerated me to get closer to her, to win her father' s approval. My three years of foolish love felt like a giant, humiliating joke. I remembered how my father brought Kassidy and her mother home after my mother' s funeral, how they made me a villain, and how Conrad, my supposed savior, had stepped in to protect me from bullies.

I had been so blind, so stupidly arrogant, believing I was special to him. He wasn't a saint; he was just obsessed with the wrong woman.

I ran until my lungs burned, collapsing on the lawn. A hard, sharp resolve formed in the wreckage of my heart. I called Helene, my voice torn with sobs. "I'm done. I don't want him anymore." I was leaving this city, my father, Kassidy, all of it. I was starting over. I was never coming back.

Chapter 1

The passcode to Conrad Ellison's private villa was my birthday.

I used to think it was the most romantic gesture in the world. Now, it just felt like a key to a gilded cage.

I walked through the silent, starkly minimalist mansion, the cold marble floors chilling me through my thin shoes. I wasn't supposed to be here. Conrad was on a business trip, and I was supposed to be at my own apartment.

But a nagging unease, a cold knot in my stomach, had been growing for weeks. It was a feeling I couldn't shake, a suspicion whispered by the city's top gossips and confirmed by the pitying looks from my own friends.

I needed to know the truth.

I headed upstairs, my heart pounding a nervous rhythm against my ribs. I was aiming for his home office, the one place he kept strictly private. But as I passed his bedroom, I heard a sound.

A low moan.

The door was slightly ajar, pushed open by a draft from the open French doors leading to the balcony. I froze, my hand flying to my mouth. Another gust of wind nudged the heavy oak door wider, giving me a clear view.

The room was a mess, which was unlike the meticulously clean Conrad I knew. Clothes were strewn on the floor, and the air was thick with the scent of whiskey and a faint, sweet perfume I didn't recognize.

And there was Conrad.

He was on his knees by the bed, his back to me. His tailored shirt was unbuttoned, his usually perfect hair a mess. He was the image of a man undone.

A silk scarf was clutched in his hand, a soft lavender one I'd never seen before. He brought it to his face, inhaling deeply.

He was touching himself.

A soft, choked sound escaped his lips. It was a sound of pure desperation, of agonizing pleasure.

"Kassidy," he breathed, his voice rough with a longing that terrified me.

My blood ran cold.

Kassidy. My stepsister.

He was calling her name.

I stared at the lavender scarf in his hand. I knew that scarf. Kassidy had worn it to a charity event last week, bragging about how it was a limited-edition piece.

The cold in my veins turned to ice. It spread through my chest, freezing my heart, my lungs, everything. I couldn't breathe.

The man I loved, the man I thought was a saint, pure and untouchable, was not without desire.

He just didn't desire me.

My body swayed, and I gripped the doorframe to keep from collapsing. I needed to get out, to flee before he saw me, before this nightmare became even more real.

I started to back away, one silent step at a time.

Then his phone, lying on the nightstand, buzzed to life.

He snatched it, his movements jerky. He answered and put it on speaker.

"Conrad? You sound... out of breath." It was Kassidy's voice, sweet and cloying.

"What do you want?" Conrad's voice was suddenly sharp, cold, completely different from the desperate sounds he'd been making just moments ago.

"I just heard a rumor," Kassidy said, and I could practically hear the fake concern in her tone. "They're saying our dear Abby is telling everyone you two are getting married. Is that true?"

A raw, guttural sound of disgust came from Conrad's throat.

"Never."

The word hit me like a physical blow.

"She's a delusional, pathetic woman," he spat, each word a dagger. "I'm sick of her pathetic attempts to chase me. God, I wish she would just disappear."

"Oh, Conrad," Kassidy cooed. "Don't be so harsh. You know you only tolerate her to get closer to me. And to get my father's full approval. Once you have that, you won't have to see her again."

"I know," he said, his voice flat. "I can't wait for that day."

"Don't worry," Kassidy purred. "You'll get what you want soon. Good luck."

The call ended.

Silence filled the room, broken only by my own ragged breathing.

I stumbled backward, my legs refusing to hold me. My father. My stepsister. The man I loved. They were all in on it. They had all betrayed me.

Conrad's tolerance, his occasional kindnesses that I had clung to like a lifeline-it was all a lie. A tool to get to Kassidy.

My entire life, my three years of foolish, desperate love, felt like a giant, humiliating joke.

I remembered the day my father brought Kassidy and her mother home, just a month after my own mother's funeral. My mother had died from a sudden heart attack, the shock of seeing her husband publicly parading his mistress and illegitimate daughter at a major city gala was too much for her fragile heart to bear.

Suddenly, I was no longer the cherished daughter of the Collier family. I was an obstacle. A nuisance. My stepmother, a master manipulator, spread rumors about me being wild and promiscuous. Kassidy, her perfect daughter, played the victim, making me the villain in our home.

I was bullied at school, ignored at home. My life was a gray, hopeless fog.

Until Conrad Ellison appeared.

Three years ago, at a party, a group of Kassidy's friends had cornered me, spilling wine on my dress and mocking me. Conrad had stepped in. He didn't say much, just stood there with his cold, imposing presence, and they scattered like rats.

He was like a beam of light cutting through my darkness.

I became obsessed. I learned everything about him. He was a tech mogul from an old-money family, but he'd famously spent his early twenties in a monastery, a devout Buddhist who had only returned to secular life to take over his family's empire when his father fell ill. He was pure, disciplined, a world away from the filth of my own family.

The irony was so thick I wanted to laugh.

A hysterical giggle escaped my lips, sounding alien and crazed in the silent hallway.

He wasn't a saint. He was just a man obsessed with the wrong woman.

I remembered every desperate attempt I had made to get his attention. Learning about tech, attending boring industry conferences, even trying to dress in a way I thought he'd like. I once wore a revealing dress to a party, hoping to tempt him. He had looked at me with such revulsion, his eyes cold as ice. He'd told me to have some self-respect.

I had been so ashamed. I thought he was above such carnal desires.

He wasn't. He just wasn't tempted by me.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and silent. I turned and ran. I didn't know where I was going, just away. Away from that room, that house, that man.

I ran until my lungs burned and my legs gave out, collapsing in a heap on the manicured lawn outside. The perfectly trimmed grass felt like needles against my skin.

I lay there, gasping for air, the world spinning around me.

Then, a resolve, hard and sharp, formed in the wreckage of my heart.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers shaking. I found Helene's number.

She answered on the first ring. "Abby? What's wrong? You sound terrible."

"Helene," I sobbed, the sound torn from my throat. "I'm done. I don't want him anymore."

There was a pause, then Helene's voice, fierce and protective. "Good. He never deserved you. Where are you? I'm coming to get you."

"No," I said, wiping my tears with the back of my hand. "Book me a flight. To Miami. The earliest one."

"Miami? What-"

"I'm moving there," I said, my voice gaining strength. "I'm not just leaving him. I'm leaving this whole damn city. I'm leaving my father, Kassidy, all of it."

"Abby, are you sure?"

"I'm sure," I said, a strange calm settling over me. "I'm starting over. I'm never coming back."

I was done being a joke. I was done being a victim.