The moment Ethan left the café, Nadia was already on her feet. She threw her empty coffee cup into the trash and grabbed her coat, slipping outside just in time to see him walking down the street.
Keep your distance. Don't be obvious.
Her heart pounded as she trailed behind him, staying half a block away. The sky was still overcast, the pavement wet from morning rain, and the air smelled faintly of damp leaves. Ethan moved with the ease of someone unaware that they were being followed—hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly downward, like a man lost in thought.
Nadia tightened her scarf around her neck and quickened her pace, matching his speed. Each step felt like a little victory, pulling her closer to the life she imagined for herself. All she needed was a few answers, just a few details to make sure he belonged to her.
He turned down a side street, and Nadia's pulse jumped. The quiet residential area was lined with brick townhouses and iron fences, autumn leaves scattered across doorsteps. If he went inside one of these houses, she'd know where he lived. That was the first step—find out where Ethan Voss called home.
She watched as Ethan pulled out a key and unlocked the door of a townhouse with a dark green door. Nadia slowed her pace and casually crossed the street, pretending to check her phone while she stole a glance at the house. 324 West Drummond Street. She burned the address into her mind, repeating it like a mantra. 324 West Drummond Street.
Ethan disappeared inside, the door clicking shut behind him. Nadia lingered for a moment longer, pretending to scroll through Instagram while her heart raced. This was it. Now she had an anchor, something solid to hold onto. But she wasn't done—not yet.
Nadia walked down the street, turned a corner, and leaned against a lamppost, pulling out her phone. The thrill made her fingers tremble slightly, but she took a steadying breath and opened her search engine.
"Ethan Voss."
Dozens of results appeared. The name wasn't particularly common, which made it easier. She tapped through social media accounts, public records, and any profiles she could find, piecing together little fragments of his life. A LinkedIn profile told her he was a freelance photographer, specializing in urban landscapes and editorial shoots. An old college alumni post revealed that he had studied architecture for two years before dropping out.
There were more breadcrumbs, scattered across the web—
An Instagram account filled with black-and-white cityscapes and candid portraits of strangers.A mention in a local photography magazine praising his eye for "capturing the unseen corners of the city."A Twitter account with cryptic, late-night posts: "The moon always knows." "There's beauty in broken things."
She smiled. He was an artist. Of course he was. She'd always imagined herself with someone like that—someone who saw the world differently, someone who could appreciate her in ways no one else ever had.
Nadia took a screenshot of his Instagram profile, zooming in on his profile picture. It was a close-up shot of his hand resting on a camera lens, tattooed fingers curled around the focus ring. She felt an odd sense of intimacy looking at the photo, as if she were already connected to him, even though they had exchanged nothing more than a glance.
Then she found his address listed in a public database, a relic from some freelance photography licensing form he'd carelessly left searchable online. 324 West Drummond Street. Her heart leapt when she saw it in writing, as if the universe was giving her permission to move forward.
She created a new folder on her phone titled "Ethan." Inside, she saved every piece of information she found: screenshots of his social media profiles, copies of articles, old tweets—anything that could help her get closer to him. The folder felt like a treasure chest, each new discovery a gleaming coin that brought her one step closer to owning him.
This was how love worked, wasn't it? You learned everything about a person, every little detail, until there was nothing left to hide. Until they belonged to you, body and soul.
When she got home, she laid out her findings in front of her—phone in one hand, laptop open on the other, the pieces of Ethan Voss's life scattered across her screen like puzzle pieces. She zoomed in on his Instagram photos, noting the way he framed his shots, the places he liked to visit. The park by the river. The record store on Halsey Street. The rooftop of a parking garage downtown. She'd visit them all. She wanted to be everywhere he was, to slip into his world so seamlessly that he wouldn't even notice her there until it was too late.
Her heart swelled at the thought. Soon, she'd be the only thing Ethan Voss thought about.
But first, she needed to see more. She needed to watch him. Understand him. Become the person he'd never be able to leave.
She opened Google Maps and typed in his address, studying the layout of his neighborhood. She imagined herself standing outside his window, watching as he moved through his home, brushing his teeth, sitting at his desk, falling asleep.
The idea of watching him sleep made her chest ache. There was something so intimate about it—like she'd be catching a glimpse of the real him, the part no one else ever saw. The part that would one day belong to her alone.
Just a little longer, she thought. Soon, Ethan Voss would know what it felt like to be truly, deeply loved. The kind of love you never escape from.
The next day, she'd visit the places he liked. She'd walk the paths he walked, sit in the cafes he favored, and weave herself into his life little by little, until he didn't know where he ended and she began.
It was only a matter of time now. Ethan Voss was hers. And soon, he'd realize it too.
YOU ARE READING
Consumed By The Flames of Love
عاطفيةThe main character is a girl who becomes obsessed with a man and drugs him then kidnaps him. He pretends to take the drug because actually he's even more obsessed with her.
