Alexei's behaviour lingered like a bad aftertaste—weird and outright creepy.
For a split second, I swore he leaned too close, nostrils flaring as if he'd bury his nose in my neck and inhale my scent like some deranged predator. Also, how does my scent really smell like? That tall, creepy piece of shit—he wanted to show his dominance over me, doesn't he?
I vowed right then—never again in the same room as him, not if I could help it. But next time if he misbehaves with me—I will hit his balls again with the sharp side of my heels.
Night cloaked the city in neon haze, and I slipped into the sprawling Luxe Arcology Mall at midnight—after hours, when the crowds thinned to ghosts and security waved me through with a nod to my infamous face.
Fame cut both ways—the viral cat clip made me 'relatable' to some, but tabloids still painted me as the stalker villainess, chasing 'skirts,' and sabotaging dreams. Then again, I am the heiress of a very huge fashion company.
A black mask hid my features, raven hair tucked under a hood, simple jeans and sneakers swapping my usual suits for anonymity. Honestly, I have never worn a suit before becoming Emily Leonhart. The 'barista' Emily wore simple, old, and torn clothes—waiting at the tables for hours to earn a meagre amount of money.
No heels clicking warpath tonight—just quiet scouting for fabric suppliers in the 24/7 designer wing, where high-end synth-silk vendors restocked under dim LED strips. I know that it was pointless, but I am feeling helpless.
I thought that becoming Emily Leonhart would solve all of my problems—I will become a very famous designer, but reality hit me. This dream of mine is very difficult to begin with.
The mall thrummed softly even at this hour—escalators hummed like distant heartbeats, ads flickered sapphire gowns morphing colours, and faint synth-pop echoed from empty food courts.
Polished marble floors gleamed under skylights piercing the domed ceiling, casting star-like refractions. I turned a sharp left past a shuttered jewellery kiosk—aiming for the fabric emporium—when bam.
My shoulder collided hard with someone solid. I stumbled back, ass hitting the cold tile with a jolt that rattled my teeth. My mask slipped askew, purse spilling lip gloss and sketchpad across the floor.
"What the heck?!"
But the culprit barely flinched. An orange-haired woman in a sleek trench coat and matching mask loomed over me, her height towering a good four inches taller—long legs stretching her frame into elegant intimidation.
Without a word, she adjusted her bag and kept walking, heels clipping away like I was yesterday's trash.
"Hey!" Heat exploded in my chest. I scrambled up, snatching my things, and fired after her. "Hey! Where are your eyes?! You hit me!"
She froze mid-stride, then pivoted slowly. Those eyes—through the mask's edge—hit like arctic steel, framed by fiery orange waves cascading to her shoulders in perfect, glossy curls. She tugged her mask down, revealing full lips curved in faint disdain.
It was Lily Warren—the novel's heroine.
Porcelain skin glowed under the mall's violet lights, not a single pore or blemish daring to interrupt its flawless cream. Doe-brown eyes, wide and meltingly innocent, sparkled with feigned surprise.
Her figure screamed allure—soft hourglass curves hugged by the coat—generous breasts tapering to a nipped waist, hips swaying with natural grace that turned heads in any room.
Taller than me by those extra inches, she carried it like a model's effortless supremacy, delicate features all button nose and rosy cheeks, the kind that launched a thousand holo-billboards and fan wars.
Pure, fragile beauty—like a dew-kissed rose begging protection, amplified by her statuesque height.
My breath caught. OG Emily's obsession made sense now, up close. But me? Lily Warren was breath-taking; a living doll sculpted for silver screens and 'simp' armies—her extra height lending an unexpected edge to that ethereal softness.
Yet as I straightened, tugging my own mask down, I caught our reflections in a nearby storefront glass.
She loomed taller, yes, a graceful giantess in her trench; but my emerald eyes slashed sharper, predatory green against her soft browns—like emeralds claiming sapphires. Raven waves tumbled wilder, framing my milky porcelain skin that flushed with fire, not shy pink.
Full breasts strained my hoodie fuller, hips flared bolder, waist dipping into that impossible hug-me curve earned from my natural beauty. Her beauty whispered 'cherish me,' elevated by those long limbs; mine roared 'kneel,' compact power in every sinful inch.
Tall angel versus sculpted goddess—she tempted from above; I dominated unyielding—or maybe I am just making me look good.
"What?" I snapped, voice echoing sharper than intended in the empty hall.
Her lips thinned. "Oh, it's you." Recognition iced her tone, those doe eyes narrowing to slits as she looked down at me.
My pulse kicked up. "You! Did you do that knowingly?" I closed the gap, fists clenched with fury, flooding the space between us.
"I was simply walking when you barrelled into me." She crossed her arms, coat parting to reveal a simple silk blouse clinging to her curves. Her height forced me to tilt my chin up slightly, adding salt to the wound.
Why is she so tall?! I am the alpha, not her!
"Lies!" I jabbed a finger at the marble. "You saw me coming!"
She tilted her head, orange curls catching light like flames. "Did you stalk me here, Ms. Emily? Late-night mall run feels... convenient." Her voice dripped honeyed venom, echoing the tabloids she'd weaponized, making the accusation feel like a condescending lean.
"Me? Stalk you? Why the hell would I keep tabs on you?" I laughed, bitter and loud, bouncing off glass storefronts. "I have lots of work to do!"
"Then why are you here? Masked up like a thief?" She glanced at my scattered sketchpad—fabric swatches peeking out—eyebrow arching, peering down with that height advantage.
"I'm shopping. Fabric district. Unlike some, I work past midnight." I scooped the last gloss tube, straightening to full height—still shorter, but presence towering. "Besides, you were also wearing a mask!"
"At 12 a.m., when everyone's gone home?" Scepticism sharpened her eyes, arms tightening over her chest. "Your words are very vague."
"Yes. And you? Spill it—why slum it here?" I mirrored her stance, emerald glare pinning her despite the inch gap. "I am pretty sure than a famous actress like you is more tempted to stay at home, right?"
"I'm not answerable to you." She turned half-away, toward a glowing escalator lined with luxury bag ads, her long strides eating distance.
My face burned crimson under the lights. "But I answered yours! Fair's fair! You have to answer my question."
"I don't care." Dismissal flat as marble, she stepped forward. "Ms. Emily, I will not answer any of your questions."
"Why? I answered your question!"
She gave me a pitiful look as if she was talking to a child. "I won't repeat my answer, Ms. Emily."
I gritted my teeth, nails biting palms. "You're mocking me, aren't you?"
She paused, glancing back with a cool once-over—taking in my hoodie curves, the fire in my posture—from her superior height. "And you're stalking me, aren't you?"
"I am not!" My voice cracked the quiet, drawing the bot's red light our way.
"Prove it. Walk away, Ms. Emily." Her lips quirked, almost pitying. "I won't like you—ever—even if you try." With that, she melted into the escalator's glow, orange hair vanishing like a taunt, her tall silhouette lingering.
I stood fuming, heart hammering, reflections mocking me side-by-side in the glass.