Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 160

Pretty Little Problem.

Diego

There’s something about that woman. Not in the poetic, heart–fluttering way that makes normal men go soft. No, this is something different. The kind of fascination that crawls under your skin and refuses to leave. I keep replaying it in my head, the meeting, the noise, the smell of smoke and ink and money, and then her. Quiet, steady, with that cropped dark–brown hair and those eyes like struck flint. Everyone else shifted in their seats, breathing too loud, trying too hard. But not her. She just sat there, watching.

I don’t even know her name.

But I want to.

The rational part of my brain, the one Sissy spent years trying to carve into me, says to leave it. She’s Ricci’s, or tied to him somehow,

and that makes her trouble. But the other part, the one that feels too much like Sissy and too little like anything else, it’s already halfway

across the yard before I can talk myself down.

So here I am. I’ve been here for an hour. The forest behind Ricci’s estate is quiet this time of night, just the cicadas and the occasional

dog barking somewhere down the valley. The house itself sits like a jewel box behind steel and glass, lights glowing in careful symmetry.

It’s too polished, too artificial. I’ve always thought places like this look prettiest right before they burn. She’s in there. Third floor, third

window from the right. I know because I’ve been watching long enough to count her movements the way she walks back and forth

while she talks on the phone, the way her hand twists in her hair when she’s thinking. Everything about her looks controlled, even when

she’s alone. That kind of control fascinates me.

—

I could’ve asked Nico to pull her file, but that’s not what I want. Paper tells you names and dates. Watching tells you who someone is.

She’s wearing a loose white tank top, dark pants, and is barefoot. Hair short, chin–length bob, dark brown with a little wave at the ends.

It’s short in the way she could never hide behind it. I like that about her already. I lean against a tree, light a cigarette, and let the smoke

curl out slowly. From this distance, I can hear faint music drifting through her open balcony doors, classical piano, precise and delicate. I

think it’s Chopin. That makes me grin. After another few minutes pass, I flick the cigarette into the dirt, roll my shoulders, and move. I

stick to the shadows until I reach the base of the building. It’s not tall, just enough to make the climb interesting. The brick gives plenty

of grip, and my boots barely make a sound as I start up. Every handhold feels like muscle memory, something I’ve done a hundred times

before. Sissy always said I had a death wish. Maybe she’s right. But this isn’t about dying. It’s about seeing.

By the time I reach her level, the world below looks far enough away to feel irrelevant. The balcony railing is slim, black steel, the paint

chipped from weather. I hook my arm over it, pull myself up, and crouch in the dark corner where the shadows pool deepest. The curtains

are half–drawn. I can see her clearly. She’s sitting on the couch now, one leg tucked under her, a file spread across her lap. The light hits

her face in slices, cheekbones sharp, mouth unreadable. There’s no jewellery, no distractions. Just clean lines and quiet power. The kind of

woman who doesn’t need to announce what she’s capable of. She takes a sip from a mug tea, by the colour. Jasmine, maybe. She sets it down, flips a page, and writes something in the margin with a steady hand. I watch. That’s all I do. Every small detail burns itself into my memory the way her brows pinch when she reads something she doesn’t like, the faint scar that curves under her left ear, the way her

lips part just slightly when she’s thinking.

–

—

I wonder what she’d do if she knew I was here.

Probably call for help. Or reach for a weapon.

Pretty Little Problem.

Either way, I’d like to see it.

The breeze shifts, carrying the faintest trace of her perfume, something clean, floral, not sweet. I close my eyes for a second and breathe it in. It’s been a long time since anything’s held my attention like this. I glance at the files stacked on her coffee table. I can make out a few names even from here shipments, routes, bank transfers. She’s not just an ornament at Ricci’s side. She’s the one pulling the

strings. That makes her dangerous.

–

And I like dangerous.

The part of me that’s supposed to feel guilt doesn’t exist anymore. Sissy tried to build that part once, long ago, before she realised some of us are born better at breaking things than fixing them. Connor thinks I’ve got too much of her blood in me. He’s not wrong. I’ve got her patience, her quiet, her precision. But I’ve got his appetite too. The mix of them makes me what I am.

And what I am right now…is curious.

I take my phone out of my pocket, swipe open the notes app, and start typing without looking away from her:

Ricci family.

Unknown rank. Possibly strategist.

Lives alone. No visible protection detail.

Left–handed. Prefers tea to coffee.

Chopin, not Vivaldi.

Checks locks twice.

–

That last one makes me smile. She stands, crosses the room, and disappears down the hall. A bedroom, maybe. I should leave, but I don’t. Instead, I shift closer to the glass, keeping to the blind spot between the curtains. The lights dim. A moment later, she returns

no file

now, no mug. Just her, hair unpinned, eyes softer than before. She doesn’t see me. She couldn’t. But the thought of her walking past, unaware, sends a pulse of adrenaline through me. Most people mistake adrenaline for fear. For me, it’s peace. When the light finally goes out, I stay a while longer, just listening. Her footsteps fade into the next room. The faint sound of drawers opening. The rustle of fabric. I don’t move. I just stand there, watching the last sliver of lamplight disappear beneath the curtain, until there’s nothing left but moonlight and my reflection in the glass. Then I climb down. The descent is slower, quieter, but the grin on my face won’t leave my face. My boots hit the grass, soft and soundless, and I tilt my head back to look up at her window one last time.

“She doesn’t know it yet,” I murmur to the night, “but I think I just found my favourite problem.”

It’s not obsession if you’re just… observing, right?