The Watchful Eyes

IMAGE IS AI GENERATED

Lara elegantly took a sip of her coffee before going back to the newspaper. She cross her legs as she sank back into her chair.
It was a busy, average restaurant with everyone going about their business. She flipped the page.
“Classic weak man, he would never find his victim being a man,” she muttered to herself as she read the headline about the sociopathic psychopathic serial killer, now reportedly having caught his fourth victim. Lara detested him like she knew him personally and had a huge beef with him. It was the idea of all his victims being women that disgusted her the most.

Ring! Ring! Lara’s phone vibrated in her small handbag.
She pulled it out and read the name of the caller.
“Ugh, Stacy,” she sighed, rolling her eyes, before silencing the phone and placing it face down on the table.
Stacy was her assistant—one of the most hardworking and diligent women Lara had ever met, but that only meant Stacy kept her schedule packed and always ensured there was no rest.

Lara had been born into a rich home. Her dad was the governor of the state, and her mom was an actress—both successful, wealthy, and famous. Being their only child, Lara was used to the crowd and camera flashes since she was little.
But even after becoming one of the top models, the paparazzi life still felt strange to her. Despite having the perfect features for it, she often wondered if she was cut out for modeling.
She was always on the clock—appointments, deals, public appearances. She was the face of the state, and you couldn’t walk a street without seeing her on some billboard for one brand or another.

Receiving a call from Stacy made her feel tired. She hung her head between her shoulders. Sunday evenings were her time—no bodyguards, just her, disguised as a regular person.
It was getting late, and the sky was darkening. Lara didn’t want to go home yet. This was the only time she could say her life wasn’t scheduled. She sat alone, watching funny Instagram reels, laughing uncontrollably, snorting with tears coming out of her eyes. After all, she was free now.

But then she felt it—someone watching her.
The constant paparazzi attention had made her develop a sixth sense. She paused between videos, glancing around. There was nothing out of the ordinary, but she couldn’t shake the feeling. Her past stalkers had been obsessed in the worst way, but right now, in the coffee shop, she wasn’t Lara. Her long, curly blonde hair was tied up and hidden under a cheap scarf. Her nerdy glasses and unbranded t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers disguised her identity.
She convinced herself she was being paranoid and brushed it off.

She tried to focus on her phone again, but the uneasiness gnawed at her. She couldn’t even laugh at the videos any more—her mind was elsewhere.
“Okay,” she muttered, unable to take it. As much as she wanted to stay longer, she wasn’t comfortable anymore. She went to the counter, paid for her coffee, and left.

Outside, she walked uneasily and hastily. That presence lingered—the sense of being followed. The faulty, dim streetlights made it worse.
She pulled out her phone to order a Lyft, but there was no network.
“Just great,” she groaned, her fourth attempt failing.
She glanced over her shoulder—only an old couple walked behind her. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling.

Suddenly, a black van with tinted windows pulled up beside her.
Lara’s hand was already in her purse, gripping her pepper spray, ready to run. She walked past the van as if it weren’t there.
But then, the van’s door slid open. Lara took off, before she could even think. Her heart pounded in her chest, her sneakers pounding the ground as she ran, grateful she wasn’t in heels.

“Lara!” A voice called from behind.

It was familiar. She stopped and turned, breathless.
“Stacy?” Lara blinked, relief flooding through her as she saw Stacy bent over, panting.
“How—how did you find me?” Lara asked, catching her breath as she walked back toward her.
“Find my friends,” Stacy panted, showing Lara the app on her phone.
“Come on, we need to head back. There’s an urgent last-minute schedule for tonight.”

Lara groaned, sarcasm in her words. “Oh great, I’m so glad you came, you’re a Godsend.” She rolled her eyes as she followed Stacy to the van.
They both climbed in, and the van sped off.

But in a dark corner, just beneath a blinking streetlamp, a middle-aged man stood—bald, over six feet tall, with the kind of muscles that made him look intimidating. He watched the van with sharp, hollow eyes, his hands in his pockets. His lips curled upward, stretching too wide, reaching almost to his ears. It was a smile, but it wasn’t one of warmth or joy. It was eerie, deranged—like something was funny, but only to him. A psychopath.

“Lucky bird,” he muttered, before turning and disappearing into the shadows.

Stacy was a Godsend.