They say obsession is a poison. But I've always found it… invigorating.
Even as I sit in my office, watching the security footage from the hospital—her leaning over that file she thinks was "accidentally" left behind—I feel nothing but a slow, delicious satisfaction. Like watching art complete itself. She thinks she's clever. She thinks she got lucky.
But she never stood a chance.
Luna. My Luna.
She doesn't know it yet. That every turn she takes, every wall she hits, every faint light she finds—it's all me. Guiding. Pressuring. Bending her life toward mine like metal to flame.
Still, I won't touch her until she comes to me. Begging, if she has to. That's the only way this can work. I need her to need me, not just because her life depends on it—but because her heart does.
And it will.
It's amusing—her recent misunderstanding. She thinks I want someone else. I've watched her, blushing awkwardly, trying to bring Lila into conversations more, suggesting we should "get to know each other." If only she knew the absurdity of it. Lila is not the one I watched for years. Not the one I orchestrated this entire web for.
Still, I play along. That's the trick. Let her think it's all her idea, that she's in control. Even when she's tangled deeper in my hands.
Soon, Luna will return to the hospital again. She'll ask to meet the donor—me—and again, she'll be told he refuses. That he has demands.
And then, I'll give her exactly what she wants.
With one condition.
She'll ask me what I want in return. And for now, I'll simply say:
"Dinner."
But this is only the beginning.
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