For a year after we were married, I used a burner account to harass my ice-cold husband every single day. Is that the same tie you wore last week, darling? I fantasize about pulling it tight. The way your fingers look when you adjust your glasses during a lecture… so elegant. I want to take them in my mouth. Professor Green, I’m always watching you. I can’t bear to look away. His reply was always instantaneous: I have told you this behavior is disgusting. Have some self-respect. Until one day, while he was away on a business trip, I slipped into his hotel room. I was holding the shirt he’d just taken off, greedily inhaling the crisp, cold scent of cedarwood, when the door suddenly swung open. My husband blocked his colleague, who was standing behind him, from seeing inside. He shut the door, locked it, and let out a cold, low laugh. “My little psycho,” he murmured. “Did you have fun?” 1 It was eleven o’clock at night. The only light in the bedroom was the dim, yellow glow of a single bedside lamp. I was huddled under the covers, the cold light of my phone screen making my face look pale and ghostly. On my burner account, nicknamed “Puppy,” the chat window was still open from twenty minutes ago. I had sent him a candid photo. It was just a hand, the knuckles distinct, the fingers long and pale, holding a fountain pen as it made notes on a lesson plan. My caption read: If that hand wasn’t holding a pen, I bet it would feel amazing wrapped around my throat. The silence on his end stretched on. Just when I thought he wouldn’t reply, my phone buzzed. Sebastian Green: Are you some kind of sewer rat? Sebastian Green: Hiding in the shadows, spying on people. You’re disgusting. Staring at the cold, hard words, I felt no sadness. Instead, a shiver of pure, ecstatic pleasure ran down my spine. That was Sebastian. My husband. The youngest professor at King’swood University Law School, and a renowned expert in criminal psychology. To the outside world, he was the untouchable ideal, the very definition of asceticism. Only I knew how utterly sexy he was when he was angry. I buried my face in the pillow to muffle the twisted laugh bubbling in my throat as my fingers flew across the keyboard. I want you to curse me out all night long, Professor. The moment I hit send, a red exclamation mark appeared. He’d blocked me again. This was the fifth burner account I’d registered this month. No matter. I had backup SIM cards. The bedroom door creaked open. I quickly shoved my phone under the pillow and squeezed my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. The footsteps were light, carrying the scent of his aftershave and the clean, damp air from his shower. The other side of the mattress dipped. Sebastian lay down beside me. We had been married for a year, but the chasm between us in the bed was wide enough for two more people. “Clara.” His voice, cool and flat, cut through the darkness. My heart leaped into my throat. I feigned waking up, rolling over with a sleepy murmur. “Hm? What is it, darling?” “I’m going to Seacliff City tomorrow for an academic conference. I’ll be gone for three days.” “Oh, okay. Is your luggage packed? Do you need any help?” I propped myself up, the picture of a dutiful, doting wife. By the moonlight filtering through the window, I greedily traced the sharp lines of his profile. The straight bridge of his nose, his thin lips, and his eyes, which looked severe even when closed. “No.” Sebastian turned over, his back to me. “Just behave yourself while I’m gone.” “I will,” I replied obediently. “Goodnight, darling.” Lying back down, I stared at his back, my eyes wide open. Three days. If I couldn’t see him, couldn’t smell him for three days, I would go insane. My particular illness started in high school. I was a nobody, completely invisible. He was the school genius, worshiped by everyone. I collected his used scratch paper, his empty water bottles. I even found a wristband he’d dropped during a basketball game. This pathological obsession reached its peak when I found out our families had arranged for us to be married. After the wedding, he was rarely home, and when he was, his politeness was a wall between us. Because he was an expert in criminal psychology, I had to be meticulously careful to hide my true nature. If he ever found out, I wouldn’t just lose my position as Mrs. Green; he would have me committed as a dangerous deviant. But I couldn’t control it. Listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, I slowly reached a hand toward the edge of his pillow. A single strand of his dark hair lay there. I pinched it between my fingers, carefully closing my palm around it as if it were a priceless jewel. Tomorrow. Seacliff City. I was going too. 2 The moment Sebastian walked out the door, I booked a flight to Seacliff City. To avoid being discovered, I deliberately chose a later flight. I was dressed for anonymity. A black baseball cap, a black face mask, a baggy gray hoodie. I could disappear into any crowd. By the time I arrived at The Grand Seacliff Hotel, it was already three in the afternoon. The conference was being held in the second-floor ballroom. Without a room key, I couldn’t use the elevators, so I sat in the lobby, waiting. My luck turned when a group of staff members with event badges headed for the elevators. I pulled my cap down low and blended in with them. There was security at the ballroom entrance. I slipped down a side corridor to the fire escape, where a service door had been propped open, likely for ventilation. Once inside, I hid behind a thick, heavy curtain at the very back of the room. On stage, Sebastian was speaking. The spotlight bathed him in a warm glow. He wore a tailored navy suit that made him look as tall and unyielding as an oak tree, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He held a laser pointer, gesturing toward a case study on the large screen behind him. His voice, amplified by the microphone, filled the room—cool, steady, and magnetic. “For this particular type of stalker psychology, we typically classify it as…” He was analyzing psychopaths. And here I was, in the audience, watching him like a true psychopath. The secret thrill of it sent shivers through my entire body. I pulled out my burner phone, turned off the flash, and took a dozen pictures of him on stage. Each one focused on his face, his hands, the long line of his legs encased in suit trousers. I selected the clearest shot. With practiced ease, I sent a friend request from my newly registered sixth burner account. The message read: You’re captivating on stage, Professor Green. As expected, he didn’t accept. So I sent the picture through a direct message instead. Darling, your tie is a little crooked. I’m dying to go up there and straighten it for you. You look like such a deliciously corrupt gentleman up there. After sending the barrage of messages, I fixed my eyes on him. He was at a critical point in his lecture when the phone he’d placed on the lectern lit up. He glanced at it. In that instant, I saw the hand holding the laser pointer pause for half a second. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly before smoothing out again. He didn’t stop his lecture. His rhythm didn’t even falter. His composure was flawless. Undeterred, I sent another message: I’m watching you. Can you guess where I am? This time, I got a reaction. He adjusted his glasses, and his gaze suddenly lifted from his notes. It swept past the front rows, locking onto the back of the room. It lingered on the exact spot where I was hiding. I knew the curtains were thick, that he couldn’t possibly see me. But I felt as if I had been stripped bare. He stared at my corner for a full five seconds before casually looking away. “That concludes my presentation for today.” He closed his laptop. His voice was a full octave colder than before. I didn’t dare stay any longer. As the crowd began to move, I pulled my cap down and slipped out, hugging the wall. Just outside the ballroom, I overheard two female students talking. “Professor Green is so handsome. It’s a shame he married so young.” “I heard his wife is some boring socialite. She doesn’t deserve him at all.” I tugged at the edge of my mask and smiled without a sound. I didn’t leave the hotel. I couldn’t find Sebastian’s room number at the front desk, but I knew how to find him. As a special guest, he would be on the executive floor. I hid in a restroom in the executive lounge until I saw Sebastian walk by with a male assistant. Room 1608. I memorized the number, then went to the front desk and booked room 1609. Right next door. Once inside, I pressed my ear against the shared wall. The soundproofing was too good; I couldn’t hear a thing. But it didn’t matter. Just knowing he was sleeping only a few inches away was enough to make my blood sing with an excitement that would keep me awake all night. 3 Eight o’clock. I ordered room service and picked at my food. Suddenly, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Sebastian’s real number. Are you asleep? My hand jerked, nearly dropping the phone into my soup. I quickly replied: Not yet, darling. Are you done with work for the night? Sebastian Green: Just finished. Is everything okay at home? Me: Yep, everything’s fine! Just watching a movie. Sebastian Green: Good. Get some rest. I put the phone down, letting out a long breath. Half an hour later, I heard the door next door open, followed by the sound of several people entering. It sounded like colleagues or students coming to discuss something with him. This was my chance. They wouldn’t stay long. When they left, Sebastian might walk them to the elevator or go downstairs for a drink. That would be my window of opportunity. I rummaged through my bag and pulled out a master key card. I’d bought it on the dark web for a small fortune, specifically for situations like this. I had no idea if it would work on a high-end hotel lock, but I had to try. About forty minutes later, the door next door opened again. “Professor Green, we’ll confirm tomorrow’s schedule, then.” “Okay. Thank you for your hard work.” Sebastian’s voice. Then, the sound of a group walking toward the elevators. I cracked my own door open. Sebastian hadn’t gone back into his room. He was walking with them. It was a sign from the heavens. My heart hammered against my ribs. I grabbed the key card and slipped out of my room like a ghost. Standing in front of room 1608, my palm was slick with sweat. Beep. Dammit. A red light. I took a deep breath and tried again, this time with a bit more finesse, wiggling the card slightly. Beep. A green light flashed. The lock made a soft, satisfying click. I slipped inside. The door clicked shut behind me. I moved as one seamless motion. The room was dark, lit only by the neon glow from the city outside. The air was thick with that familiar, cold scent of cedarwood. His scent. I didn’t turn on the lights. Using the faint glow from the window, I felt my way through the room. His suitcase stood against the wall. His laptop and some papers were on the desk. The bathroom was still steamy; he must have showered recently. I walked to the bed. A white dress shirt was tossed carelessly across the covers. It was the one he’d worn during his lecture. The collar was unbuttoned, the cuffs rolled up. It was still warm from his body. I lunged for it, grabbing the shirt and burying my face in the fabric. I inhaled deeply. The scent filled my lungs, a balm to the gnawing emptiness, the craving, the ache. “Sebastian…” I whispered his name, rubbing my face against the soft cotton. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. I curled up on the bed, clutching his shirt, imagining he was lying beside me, his cold hands stroking my neck. My body grew hot, my breathing ragged and shallow. I was lost in my own world, completely consumed. And that’s when I heard it. A soft beep from the door. It swung open. 4 I froze, still kneeling on the bed, clutching the shirt. My mind was a complete blank. How could he be back so soon? Hadn’t he gone downstairs? I heard voices at the door. “Professor Green, you forgot this file…” A young woman’s voice. A student? A teaching assistant? “Ah. Thank you.” Sebastian’s voice. Right there. He stood in the doorway, his tall frame blocking most of the light, and more importantly, blocking the view of the person behind him. If he moved even an inch, they would see everything. They would see his demure, respectable wife, sprawled on his bed like a degenerate, getting off on the scent of his discarded clothes. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. It was over. It was completely and utterly over. Sebastian took the file but didn't close the door. He just stood there, a silhouette against the hallway light. I couldn’t see his expression. Time seemed to freeze. I could hear the frantic drumming of my own heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was going to explode. “Professor? Is something wrong?” the woman outside asked, her voice laced with confusion. “Is it not a good time to come in?” She started to peer around him. I squeezed my eyes shut in despair. “Yes, actually, it’s not,” Sebastian said suddenly, his voice terrifyingly calm. “I just remembered the room is a bit of a mess.” He took a step to the side, completely blocking the doorway. “I have the file now. You should go get some rest.” “Okay, goodnight, Professor.” Her footsteps receded down the hall. The world fell silent again. Click. The deadbolt slid into place. The sound was deafening in the quiet room. Sebastian didn’t turn on the lights. He walked toward me, one slow step at a time. His leather shoes were muffled by the thick carpet. I remained in my pathetic pose, my knuckles white as I gripped the shirt. I tried to let go, but my fingers were frozen stiff. He stopped at the edge of the bed. He loomed over me. In the darkness, his eyes seemed to glow. “Clara.” He said my name, his tone utterly unreadable. I lifted my head, my body trembling as tears streamed down my face. “I…” I wanted to explain, but my throat was too dry to make a sound. And what could I say? I was caught red-handed. Sebastian slowly shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it onto a nearby armchair. Then he leaned over me, planting his hands on either side of my body, trapping me between him and the mattress. The cedarwood scent was overwhelming now, suffocating me. He reached out and tilted my chin up, forcing me to look at him. The pads of his fingers were cool and rough against my trembling lips. “So, the little psycho was you all along.” His voice was a low whisper, tinged with something that sounded dangerously like amusement. “When you sent those messages… were you imagining me doing this to you?” My whole body was shaking, the tears flowing faster now. His gaze dropped to the crumpled shirt in my arms. “You like my scent that much?” He leaned closer, his warm breath ghosting across my neck, raising a million tiny goosebumps. “My little psycho,” he whispered, nipping my earlobe. “Did you have fun?”
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