---- Chapter 19 No.19 The nightmare bled into her waking hours. Clare found herself jumping at shadows, her head snapping up at the sound of any unfamiliar car. The sense of being watched was a constant, low-level hum of anxiety. She tried to deconstruct his motives. This wasn't love. This was obsession. The rage of a spoiled child who had his favorite toy taken away. He couldn't stand that she was living a life that didn't revolve around him. He wanted to smash it, just to prove he could. She remembered all the small ways he had controlled her. The "suggestions" about her wardrobe that were actually commands. The way he would subtly steer her away from friends he deemed "unsuitable." She hadn't been a partner. She had been a project. His "perfect Clare." A doll in a dollhouse. And the thought now filled her not with sadness, but with a profound and visceral disgust. Across town, in his gilded cage of a hotel room, Chase was unraveling. He hadn't slept in days. When he did, he was plagued by dreams of her walking away, her back straight and unforgiving. ---- He'd wake up reaching for her, his hand closing on empty, expensive sheets. He started seeing her everywhere. A woman with her hair, her laugh. He'd feel a jolt of hope, followed by a crushing wave of disappointment. One afternoon, in the hotel lobby, he thought he saw her walking towards him, a gentle, concerned look on her face. He stood up, his heart leaping. "Clare?" The woman walked right past him without a second glance. A phantom. A hallucination born of whiskey and desperation. He sank back into his chair, his hands trembling. His desperation curdled into something ugly and reckless. If he couldn't have her, no one could. But he had a plan. A terrible, final plan. He drove to her studio. He knew her routine now. She always arrived in the late afternoon, He waited. He felt a strange, sick calm. When he saw her car pull into the lot, he got out. He didn't hide. He walked directly to the studio door, using the key he'd had copied. He let himself in and waited in the shadows. She entered a few minutes later, humming softly to herself. She seemed relaxed, happy. The sight of her simple ---- contentment filled him with a black, consuming jealousy. She switched on the lights and saw him. She gasped, stumbling back, her hand flying to her mouth. The fear in her eyes was real this time. It was the fear from her nightmare, made flesh. And in some twisted, broken part of his soul, he was glad. At least she was feeling something. "Chase," she breathed, her voice trembling. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?" "We need to talk," he said, his voice raspy. He took a step towards her. "No," she said, backing away. "We're done talking." "I'm not leaving, Clare," he said, his eyes feverish. He closed the distance between them, backing her against a wall of shelves. The ugly little pots she'd made rattled precariously. "I'm not leaving without you." He reached for her, his hands clumsy, hot with fever. He grabbed her face, trying to kiss her. His nightmare had become her reality.