I always thought I was careful—who wouldn’t be, living alone in a city where cameras track your mood? But the moment I opened the false bottom in Adrian’s desk, my stomach dropped. There I was, five years ago, leaving my old apartment. And there I was again, last winter, buying coffee. Dozens of photos, each timestamped, some annotated in his precise handwriting: 'She smiles more when it rains.' 'Avoids eye contact after 8 PM.' This isn’t just attraction. This is a timeline of my life he’s been curating while I smiled at him in meetings, oblivious.

Now, standing in his office after hours, I clutch the folder, heart pounding. He could walk in any second. Part of me wants to scream, to throw the pictures in his face. Another part wonders—what if I let him think I don’t know? What if I start feeding him lies, just to see how far he’ll go?

The elevator dings down the hall. Footsteps approach. I have seconds to decide.