Chapter 2 He Pursues Like a Madman

# Chapter 2: He Pursues Like a Madman

Three days after the disastrous gala, I was still fuming. My Monday column had been scathing—though I'd avoided naming Damon directly, anyone who'd witnessed our encounter would recognize the "entitled heir who mistakes inherited wealth for personal achievement." Charlotte loved it, readers devoured it, and I felt vindicated.

Until Tuesday morning, when my landlord called.

"Miss Collins, I'm sorry to inform you that your lease won't be renewed next month."

"What?" I nearly dropped my coffee mug. "Why? I've never been late on rent."

"Building's changing ownership," he explained, sounding genuinely apologetic. "New owner has other plans."

"Who's the new owner?" I demanded.

A pause. "I'm not at liberty to say."

I knew. Somehow, I just knew.

That afternoon, I couldn't access my work email. The IT department was baffled. "It's like someone with serious skills deliberately locked you out," the technician said. "We'll need a day or two to fix it."

By Wednesday, I was paranoid. Every inconvenience felt like sabotage. Was it coincidence that my favorite coffee shop closed for "unexpected renovations"? That my gym membership suddenly showed as "expired"?

"You're being ridiculous," Ava said over lunch. "Damon Whitlock doesn't care enough to orchestrate all this."

"You didn't see his face in that hallway," I insisted. "He looked at me like... like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve. Or break."

Ava studied me curiously. "Are you sure you're not just obsessing over him? Because that's what it sounds like."

"I am not obsessing!" My voice rose enough that nearby diners turned to stare.

"Then why have you mentioned him every day since the gala?"

I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it. Had I really?

"Look," Ava said more gently, "even if he is behind some of this, what's the endgame? To annoy you? That's pretty juvenile for a billionaire businessman."

She had a point. What could Damon possibly gain by disrupting my mundane life?

The answer came Thursday morning.

I was sipping coffee and scrolling through my phone when Ava's frantic call came in.

"Have you seen it?" she demanded without preamble.

"Seen what?"

"The magazine. Today's issue. Your column."

I frowned. "My column isn't due until next week."

"Well, there's definitely something in your slot today."

Twenty minutes later, I burst into The Metropolitan's offices, clutching the magazine so tightly my knuckles were white. There, on page 37, where my "Emotional Entanglements" column should be, was a single sentence in bold type:

"Emery, you're running away."

Below it, a small D.W. signature.

Charlotte was waiting in her office, her expression a mix of confusion and intrigue.

"Before you ask," she said as I stormed in, "I have no idea how this happened. The file was corrupted when we sent it to print, and somehow this replaced it."

"He hacked our systems?" I was incredulous.

"Who did?"

I slapped the magazine on her desk, pointing at the initials. "Damon Whitlock."

Charlotte's eyes widened. "The Damon Whitlock? Why would he—"

"Because he's insane!" I paced the small office. "He's been systematically disrupting my life since the gala. He bought my building, hacked my email, and now this?"

"Wait, he bought your building?"

I ran my hands through my hair in frustration. "I can't prove it, but yes, I think so."

Charlotte leaned back in her chair, studying me. "Emery, do you realize what this means?"

"That I need a restraining order?"

"That Damon Whitlock is obsessed with you." A slow smile spread across her face. "This is gold. Pure gold."

I stared at her in disbelief. "You think this is a good thing?"

"From a publishing perspective? Absolutely." She tapped the magazine. "This little stunt has already tripled our online traffic this morning. Everyone's talking about what it means, who it's for. And when they realize it's directed at our own columnist..." She made a chef's kiss gesture. "Publicity we couldn't buy."

My stomach churned. "I'm not using this for content."

"Why not? He clearly wants attention."

"I'm not giving him the satisfaction."

Charlotte shrugged. "Your call. But if the heir to the Whitlock fortune is pursuing you—even in this bizarre way—that's a story people would devour."

I left her office feeling even more unsettled. Was this pursuit? Or some elaborate form of revenge?

That evening, alone in my apartment, I stared at the magazine page. What did he mean, I was running away? Running from what? From him? The thought was laughable. We'd had one hostile encounter at a charity gala. There was nothing to run from.

Yet here he was, infiltrating every aspect of my life.

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

"Figured it out yet?"

My heart raced. I typed back: "Who is this?"

Three dots appeared immediately. "You know exactly who it is."

I should have blocked the number. Instead, I replied: "What do you want from me?"

"A conversation."

"We had one. It ended with you threatening me."

"Not a threat. A promise."

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Before I could respond, another message came through:

"The Plaza. Tomorrow. 8 PM."

"And if I don't show up?"

"Then I'll know you're still running."

I threw the phone down as if it had burned me. This was madness. He was madness. And I wasn't going to play his game.

The next day passed in a blur of anxiety and indecision. I told myself repeatedly I wouldn't go. Wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

At 7:30, I found myself in a cab headed to The Plaza.

I told myself it was to confront him, to end this bizarre campaign once and for all. But as I entered the opulent lobby, my heart hammering, I couldn't deny the thrill of anticipation coursing through me.

He was waiting at a quiet corner table in the hotel bar, a glass of amber liquid in front of him. He didn't look up as I approached, though I knew he sensed my presence.

"You're late," he said as I took the seat across from him.

"I considered not coming at all."

His eyes met mine, and I felt that same electric current from the hallway. "But you did."

"To tell you to stop whatever game you're playing." I kept my voice low, controlled. "Buying my building? Hacking my email? Taking over my column? What kind of person does that?"

"The kind who gets what he wants." He took a sip of his drink, studying me over the rim of the glass. "And what I want is you."

The directness of his statement caught me off guard. "You don't even know me."

"I know enough." He leaned forward slightly. "I know you grew up in Connecticut. Your father left when you were twelve. You worked your way through journalism school and turned down a prestigious internship to care for your mother when she was diagnosed with cancer."

My mouth went dry. "How—"

"I know you donate ten percent of your salary to cancer research, anonymously. I know you keep people at a distance because you're afraid of abandonment. And I know your column is sharp because you think that's the only way to protect yourself from getting hurt again."

Anger and fear battled within me. "Stalking me doesn't make you insightful. It makes you dangerous."

"I prefer 'thorough.'" A hint of a smile played at his lips. "And if I were truly dangerous, you wouldn't be sitting here right now."

"What do you want?" I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.

He reached across the table, his fingers brushing mine. The contact sent electricity up my arm. "I want to know why you're fighting this so hard."

"Fighting what?"

"This." He gestured between us. "The fact that from the moment you spilled champagne on me, neither of us has thought about anything else."

I pulled my hand away. "That's not true."

"No?" His expression was challenging. "Then why did you come tonight?"

"To tell you to leave me alone."

"You could have done that by text. Or by going to the police." His gaze was unwavering. "But you didn't. You came here, dressed like that—" his eyes traveled over my carefully chosen outfit, "—because you're as intrigued as I am."

"You're delusional."

"And you're lying. To me, and to yourself."

I stood abruptly. "This was a mistake."

He remained seated, infuriatingly calm. "Running again, Emery?"

"Stop saying that!" The few other patrons glanced our way, and I lowered my voice. "I'm not running from anything."

"Prove it."

I glared at him. "I don't have to prove anything to you."

Before I could turn to leave, he was on his feet, his hand catching my wrist. Not forcefully, but enough to stop me.

"One week," he said quietly. "Give me one week to show you why you can't walk away from this."

"From what? There is no 'this.'"

His eyes darkened. "Then you have nothing to lose by agreeing."

I should have pulled away. Should have told him to go to hell. Instead, I found myself asking, "And what happens after this week?"

"If you still want me to leave you alone, I will." His thumb brushed over my pulse point, sending shivers down my spine. "Completely. Permanently."

It was a terrible idea. Every rational part of my brain screamed in protest. But something else—something wild and reckless—whispered that I'd regret walking away.

"Fine. One week." I extracted my wrist from his grip. "And then you disappear from my life."

The smile that spread across his face was predatory, triumphant. He stepped closer, and I forced myself not to back away. His hand came up to my face, fingers trailing along my jaw with surprising gentleness.

"One week," he agreed, his voice a low rumble that I felt more than heard.

Then he closed the distance between us, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that was both a question and a claim. I should have pushed him away. Instead, my hands found his shoulders, drawing him closer as the kiss deepened.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing harder, he kept me close, his forehead pressed to mine.

"I'm only going to say this once," he whispered against my lips. "I pursued you like this because I needed to prove something."

"What?" I managed to ask, still dazed from the kiss.

His grip tightened, and his next words sent a shiver of both fear and excitement through me: "That I'm crazier than any man you've ever known."