Ex Threatens My Son

Morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows as I prepared Oliver's breakfast, my mind still replaying yesterday's confrontation at the hospital. Dr. Reed had been wonderful—efficiently treating Oliver's asthma attack while ensuring Nathan was kept at bay. But the memory of his voice, his presumptuous claim on my son, had haunted me through a restless night.

The doorbell chimed, interrupting my thoughts. I glanced at the security panel by the door, but saw no one waiting. Strange. Oliver was still sleeping, his breathing finally even after yesterday's scare. I hesitated, then slipped into the hallway, peering through the peephole before cautiously opening the door.

No person waited outside, but an explosion of crimson greeted me instead—a massive bouquet of blood-red roses arranged in an ornate crystal vase that must have cost a small fortune. My stomach tightened as I crouched to retrieve the small cream-colored card nestled among the blooms.

'Your Penitent,' it read in elegant script.

I dropped the card as if it had burned me, a chill spreading through my body despite the warmth of our apartment. Nathan. It had to be. The roses were precisely the kind he'd always insisted on—imported, perfect, and utterly without fragrance. All show, no substance.

Leaving the flowers in the hallway, I rushed back inside and pulled up the security app Alexander had insisted on installing. With trembling fingers, I scrolled back through the morning's footage. There—a delivery person I didn't recognize, and then, as I continued rewinding, a black sedan idling across the street at 5:47 AM. The camera wasn't close enough to capture the driver's face clearly, but I'd know that car anywhere. Nathan's Bentley.

My phone felt heavy in my hand as I debated calling Alexander. He was in Tokyo closing an acquisition—the time difference meant he'd be in meetings now. I couldn't burden him with this, not when Oliver was stable and I was just dealing with... flowers. Unwanted, intrusive flowers, but still just a bouquet. I was stronger than this.

Instead, I scrolled to another contact—Marcus Donovan, a former NYPD detective Alexander had hired when we first moved into this building. Alexander had introduced him as "building security," but I'd always suspected he was more personal protection than doorman.

"Mrs. Sterling," Marcus answered on the first ring, his voice professional but warm. "Everything alright?"

"I need some extra security measures," I said, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounded. "My ex has resurfaced."

Within an hour, Marcus had arrived with discreet cameras for our hallway and a calm efficiency that eased some of my anxiety. He reviewed the footage I'd found, his expression darkening as he recognized the vehicle.

"He's been circling the block each night around 2 AM," Marcus informed me, showing me additional footage I hadn't discovered. "Three nights in a row now. Started right after the hospital incident."

I felt my skin crawl. "He's watching us."

"Not anymore," Marcus assured me. "I've got eyes on him now."

Two hours later, I was dropping Oliver off at his preschool, forcing a smile as I kissed his forehead. "Be good for Ms. Winters, sweetheart."

"I will, Mommy," he promised, his blue eyes—so like Alexander's—bright with excitement as he spotted his friends.

As I straightened, I noticed a cluster of mothers by the cubbies, their conversation halting abruptly as they saw me. One—Bethany, whose daughter often played with Oliver—gave me a sympathetic smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Summer," she said, her voice dripping with forced casualness. "How are you holding up?"

"Fine," I replied, instantly on guard. "Why wouldn't I be?"

The women exchanged glances. "Just... with everything going on," another mother said vaguely. "It must be difficult."

I excused myself quickly, retreating to my car before pulling out my phone. A quick search of my name brought up nothing unusual, but when I checked Instagram, my blood ran cold.

A new account—@SummerStalker—had posted a series of manipulated photos: me supposedly watching Nathan through windows, standing outside his office building, even one doctored to show me lurking near his apartment. The caption read: "Some exes can't let go. #ObsessedMuch #PoorNathan."

The account already had thousands of followers.

I recognized Rebecca's handiwork immediately. The calculated malice, the public humiliation—it was exactly her style. And now I understood the mothers' whispers. How many other parents had seen this? How many believed it?

As I sat frozen in my car, my phone pinged with a text from Marcus: "Mr. Walsh's car just drove past the preschool. Want me to intercept?"

The walls I'd built around my new life were beginning to crack, and I realized with sickening clarity that Nathan wasn't just making a claim on Oliver—he was systematically dismantling everything I'd worked so hard to build.