Page 120 of PR Stunt

This is it. The final act. After tonight, the contract ends, the questions stop, and I can move on. A soft click echoes from the main room. I turn, already speaking.

“Anna, truly, I can meet you at the car.”

Silence.

The energy shifts first, a sharp prickle skating down my spine. I step out of the bathroom and stop cold. A man stands just inside the hotel suite, the door closed behind him. Not hotel staff. Not anyone I recognize. Shorter than me, with a suit slightly too big for him, the fabric swallowing his frame and the collar of his shirt sitting crooked at his neck. Greasy brown hair, parted but unkempt. Pale skin with that almost sickly cast that makes him look like he hasn’t seen daylight in days. His lips are dry, cracked at the corners, and when he smiles, too wide, too eager, it never reaches his dull, sunken eyes. A backpack hangs from one shoulder.

Something feels off. My fingers tighten around my clutch.

“Can I…help you?” My voice is even, but my skin crawls as his gaze drags over me.

He looks almost startled that I spoke first, like he expected me to scream. Instead, he smiles wider, pleased.

I swallow down the urge to shudder. I glance toward my phone, still sitting on the bed.

“No,” he says softly. “Don’t think about that.”

My breath catches.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to meet you, Charlie.”

Every muscle in my body locks. I keep my voice even as a cold unease presses against my spine. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

His smile stretches a fraction wider. “That’s odd,” he murmurs. “You don’t recognize me?”

The way he says it makes my skin prickle. Like I should and this is personal. I don’t move. Don’t even glance toward the door. I know better than to give him any indication that I want out. My heart pounds against my ribs. “I don’t know you.”

He tilts his head, studying me with thinly veiled disappointment. “That’s not true,” he says. “You do.”

A pause. His eyes sweep over me again before settling back on my face. “I know you.”

Every alarm bell in my body goes off at once. I chance another glance at my phone. Still on the bed. Useless. His head tilts slightly, following my line of sight. Who the hell is this stranger? His smile doesn’t falter, but his fingers twitch at his sides. Like he can barely contain himself.

“I’m not here to scare you,” he says. “I just—I had to see you. After everything…” His breath hitches, and his eyes shine with something that makes my stomach churn.

I force my shoulders to relax. My expression stays neutral, but inside, my mind is already moving.

How fast can I get to the door?

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say carefully. “After what?”

His breath shudders out, and he tilts his head again, like he can’t believe I’m asking.

“After all the letters,” he whispers. “All the gifts.” His voice drops, thick with something dark and desperate. “The ChapStick. I knew you’d know it was from me. The number of nights I’ve laid awake, picturing you putting something on your lips that I gave you…” He licks his own lips slowly, like he’s savoring the thought. ChapStick? My stomach drops. The package. The cream card. The handwriting I barely glanced at. For the moments in between. The one I assumed came from the team. My fingers go cold around the clutch. Cold dread spreads through my chest. He watches me with something close to reverence, like he’s waiting for me to understand.

And then, softly, he says, “I’ve been taking your picture for years.”

The words slither through my brain, slow at first—and then snapping into place. Taking my picture?

His lips part, his breath quickens. “That’s when I first fell for you. When I knew.” His fingers curl into his palms, like he’s holding something delicate. Like he’s holding…me. “And you…” His voice catches, filled with something too raw, too dangerous. “You validated me.”

Validated you how, you creep?

“You always reposted my photos,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “You saw my work. You saw me.”

A sickening realization coils in my gut. He’s a paparazzo. One of the hundreds of photographers who shove cameras in my face. A baseball cap pulled low outside premieres. A camera lens angled upward. A face I never looked at twice because there were always too many of them. One of the men I’ve brushed past on red carpets, walking straight into a flashing wall of their lenses. And I reposted his shots. Unknowingly fed his delusion.

The bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it down. Stay calm. Stay still.