Chapter 1 The Coffee Shop

I was already running late that morning, like every Thursday. The corner coffee shop was my daily ritual - double shot latte and whole wheat toast, the only constant in my chaotic life as a junior marketing executive.

"The usual?" Tom called out as I rushed in, his familiar face bringing a small comfort to my stressful morning.

"You're a lifesaver!" I checked my watch: 8:40. If I ran, I might make it to the morning meeting.

What happened next would change my life forever, though I didn't know it then. As I spun toward the door, coffee in hand, I crashed straight into him. The hot liquid splashed across what was clearly an expensive suit, and my stomach dropped to my feet.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry!" I frantically grabbed napkins, my hands shaking as I tried to dab at the massive brown stain spreading across his chest.

His eyes... that was the first thing I really noticed. Cold, calculating, taking in every detail of my face as I apologized. "Do you have any idea how much this suit costs?"

"I can pay for the dry cleaning..." My voice sounded small even to my own ears.

"Dry cleaning?" He laughed, but there was no warmth in it. "This is custom-made. Once damaged, it needs to be completely remade."

I clutched my wallet, knowing it couldn't cover whatever astronomical sum he was about to name. "I'm kind of tight on money right now..."

"Then you'll have to compensate another way." The way he said it made me look up, meeting those intense eyes again. "Work at my company."

He pulled out a business card: "Bernard Morris, CEO of Morris Industries."

Morris Industries? My mind raced - they were huge, a multinational corporation. What were the chances I'd literally run into their CEO?

"I have important meetings this Friday," he continued, his eyes never leaving my face. "Before then, you'll need to help me get a new custom suit made and cover all costs. You can work it off as a temp at my company."

I should have said no. Should have offered to make payments, anything else. Instead, I found myself nodding.

"Good. Come with me now."

"Wait! I need to go to work..."

"I'll have someone notify your current company." He didn't even turn around. "Starting now, you're my temporary assistant."

A black sedan waited outside. As I slid into the leather seat, I had no idea I was entering the orbit of a man who would document every moment of our life together with terrifying precision.

The first hint came two weeks into the job. While organizing his desk drawer, I found a small leather notebook. Inside, in precise handwriting:

"Thursday, 8:40 AM. Coffee shop incident. Subject wore navy blue blazer, white blouse, black pencil skirt. Hair in loose waves. Slight citrus perfume. Ordered double shot latte, whole wheat toast. Previous receipts in her bag suggest this is a daily routine."

My blood ran cold. He'd written down everything about our first meeting.

"Looking for something?" Bernard's voice made me jump. I hadn't heard him enter.

"Just organizing, like you asked." I tried to keep my voice steady. "You're very... thorough with your notes."

"Memory is unreliable." He walked over, taking the notebook from my hands. "Details matter. For instance, your perfume today - you switched from citrus to vanilla. Any particular reason?"

I swallowed hard. "You noticed that?"

"I notice everything about you, Diana."

That evening, during our first dinner together, I tested him.

"The coffee shop..." I started casually, "what made you decide to hire me instead of just demanding payment?"

His lips curved into a slight smile. "Your left hand trembled slightly when you offered to pay. Three credit card receipts visible in your wallet, all close to their limits. The tag on your blazer was new but the stitching on your bag was frayed - recently promoted but still catching up financially. You checked your watch four times in two minutes - dedicated to punctuality. Perfect candidate for an assistant."

The casual precision of his observation sent a chill down my spine. "You got all that from a two-minute interaction?"

"I got much more than that." He pulled out his phone, showing me a note. "You apologized seven times in three different ways. Your coffee order suggests you prioritize efficiency over price - double shot latte costs $1.50 more. The barista knew your order, indicating routine. Shall I continue?"

I forced a laugh. "Most people would just remember that I spilled coffee on them."

"I'm not most people, Diana." His eyes locked onto mine. "I believe life's most important moments deserve to be preserved in perfect detail. Don't you agree?"

Over the next few months, I discovered just how deep his "preservation" went. More notebooks appeared, each filled with meticulous records. One evening, as we worked late, I spotted him making notes.

"What are you writing?" I asked.

"Just observations. For instance, you've been more productive on Tuesdays - 23% more output compared to other days. You work best between 2 and 4 PM, especially after your afternoon coffee. When focused, you have a habit of twirling your hair exactly three times before starting each new task."

"That's... very specific."

"ProHe closehe notebook. "Like how you've checked your phone twelve times in the past hour, up from your usual average of three. Something on your mind?"

The way he quantified every action, every habit, should have sent me running. Instead, I found myself drawn deeper into his world. He was brilliant, successful, and seemed to understand me better than I understood myself. When he asked me to move in six months later, I said yes.

That's when I found the recordings.

"Just reviewing the day," he said casually one night, when I caught him with a voice recorder. "Did you know your laugh has seven distinct variations? The one from dinner tonight - that was number three. Slightly higher pitch, usually reserved for social situations you find uncomfortable. Like when Harrison kept touching your arm."

"You... record my laughs?"

Don’t afraid of me, I just love you."

One day, a note found its way to my desk: "Check his home office. The blue binder."

I waited until he was at a late meeting. The blue binder was exactly where the note said it would be. Inside, I found photographs. Hundreds of them. Me getting coffee. Me shopping. Me having lunch with friends. All dated, timestamped, annotated and his analysis.

Who I am? His girlfriend or his subjects？

That night, watching him sleep, I made my decision.

I had to get out.

Ashley was my only hope. My college roommate, now working for a major airline. She understood immediately - no questions asked, just action.

"I'll book you under my employee benefits," she whispered over a burner phone. "One-way to Hawaii. Then you disappear."

The plan worked perfectly. While Bernard was documenting another late-night meeting, I vanished. No one can find me including Bernard.

Three years passed. I rebuilt my life in Silicon Valley, thanks to Ashley's connections. Started my own tech company - Nathan, my college friend, became more than just a business partner. He is my fiancé.

I thought I was free.

Until today.

The brown envelope on my desk is identical to the ones Bernard used for his most important documents. My hands shake as I reach for it, but before I can open it, my secretary's voice comes through the intercom:

"Ms. Miller? Mr. Morris is here. Can I let him in ?"