Jealousy is a poison that consumes you slowly, infecting every thought and action until you're no longer yourself. I didn't start out this way, watching from the shadows, tracking their every move, but that's where I've found myself. My name doesn't matter anymore—what matters is them: Antonio Bianchi and Isabella Russo.

They don't know I exist. They don't see the eyes that follow them from afar, the mind that meticulously records their every interaction, the heart that burns with envy. I wasn't always like this, but seeing them together, seeing how Antonio looks at her, how he touches her, how he protects her—it's enough to drive anyone mad.

Antonio should have been mine. 

That thought has been the mantra looping endlessly in my head. He's powerful, intelligent, and devastatingly handsome, the kind of man who commands attention without even trying. And yet, he chose her, Isabella, the daughter of his enemy. A woman who, in my eyes, doesn't deserve the devotion he gives her. It's a bitter pill to swallow.

So I watch. I learn. I wait.

My days are spent tracking Isabella, learning her routines, understanding her habits. She is meticulous, organized, and frustratingly predictable. Each morning she rises early, sometimes before dawn, to spend time in the garden. She's fond of the flowers there, tending to them as though they're precious jewels. It's ironic, really, that someone so delicate can hold the heart of a man like Antonio.

I follow her quietly, always at a distance. I know which paths she favors, the times she'll be alone. There's a rhythm to her day, one that I've come to know intimately. It's almost pathetic how easy it is to predict her moves. Isabella loves routine, and it's that routine I'm exploiting.

She spends her afternoons in the library, another of her sanctuaries. I've seen her sitting by the large bay window, a book in her lap, her mind lost in the pages. Sometimes, Antonio joins her there, and they'll sit together, sharing quiet moments. It's in those moments that the jealousy sharpens into something darker, something dangerous.

Watching them together is a special kind of torture. They're so at ease with each other, so attuned to one another's presence. Antonio's eyes soften when he looks at her, his usual intensity giving way to something more tender. 

I hate it. 

I hate that she's the one who brings that side out of him.

But I don't just watch for the sake of watching. No, there's a purpose to my observations. I'm learning everything I can about Isabella, finding the cracks in her perfect life. I've noticed that she's fond of a particular cafe in town, one she visits every Wednesday afternoon. It's her little escape, a place where she can be just Isabella and not Antonio's lover.

I've been there too, sitting a few tables away, pretending to be engrossed in my phone or a newspaper. She orders the same thing every time: a cappuccino with extra foam and a slice of lemon cake. She smiles at the barista, always polite, always kind. It's sickening how perfect she is. But it's also a weakness. This cafe, this routine, it's something I can use.

I've considered confronting her there, in that cafe. A casual meeting, perhaps. I've thought about how I'd do it—maybe a simple "accidental" encounter where I'd strike up a conversation, plant a seed of doubt, make her question her relationship with Antonio. But no, that's too risky. She's too sharp, too clever. I can't afford to make a mistake.

Instead, I continue to watch. I've learned that Isabella likes to take walks alone in the evenings, usually just before dinner. She prefers the path that winds through the eastern part of the estate, where the trees are thick and the world is quiet. It's there that I follow her most closely, keeping just out of sight.

She often pauses at a particular spot, a small clearing with a bench overlooking a pond. I've seen her sit there, lost in thought, her expression serene. I've wondered what she thinks about in those moments.

 Does she think of Antonio?

Of their future?

Does she ever doubt him? 

Doubt herself?

I've noticed that she's started carrying her phone with her on these walks, but she rarely uses it. It's more of a security blanket, I think, something to make her feel connected to the world even when she's alone. Another habit of hers, one I've cataloged and filed away for later use.

But it's not just her routines I'm interested in—it's her vulnerabilities. Isabella is careful, always aware of her surroundings, but she's not invincible. She's still human, still prone to mistakes. I've seen her falter, if only slightly. A hesitation here, a nervous glance there. She's not as strong as she appears, not as unshakeable as she wants the world to believe.

The first time I saw her truly vulnerable was during one of those evening walks. It was raining, a light drizzle that turned the world gray and cold. She didn't bring an umbrella, of course—why would she? She never expected to be caught in the rain. But there she was, soaked to the skin, shivering as she hurried back to the estate.

I was close that night, closer than I'd ever been. I could see the goosebumps on her arms, the way her teeth chattered as she quickened her pace. It would have been so easy to step out of the shadows, to approach her, to introduce myself. 

But I didn't. 

I couldn't. 

Not yet.

Instead, I followed her back to the estate, watching as she rushed inside, shaking off the rain and muttering to herself. She wasn't perfect then—she was just a woman, cold and wet and annoyed with herself. It was a small victory, but it fueled my determination.

I've started keeping a journal of sorts, detailing everything I've learned about Isabella. It's filled with observations, notes, and plans. I know the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's thinking, the way she bites her lip when she's nervous. I know that she prefers red wine over white, that she sleeps on the left side of the bed, that she's afraid of thunderstorms. All these little details, these pieces of her life, they're mine now.

Antonio has no idea. He's too focused on her, too consumed by his love for her to notice the eyes that watch them both. I wonder what he'd do if he knew, if he realized how close I've been, how intimately I've come to know the woman he loves. 

Would he be angry?

Protective? 

Or would he finally see that I'm the one who truly understands him?

The thought of confronting Isabella directly still lingers in my mind, but I'm not ready. Not yet. There's more to learn, more to observe. I need to be sure, to know that when the time comes, I'll have the upper hand. 

Isabella is smart, but I'm smarter. 

She's careful, but I'm meticulous.

One day, she'll slip. 

One day, she'll make a mistake, and I'll be there, ready to take advantage of it.

And when that day comes, Antonio will finally see that she's not the one he needs. 

I am.

But for now, I wait. I watch. I learn. Every day, I grow more confident, more certain that my moment will come. Isabella can't keep up this perfect facade forever. And when it cracks, when she finally shows her true self, I'll be there to pick up the pieces.

Because Antonio deserves better. He deserves someone who truly understands him, who knows his strengths and his weaknesses, who can be his equal in every way. 

And that someone isn't Isabella. 

It's me.

So I'll keep watching, keep learning, keep planning. Isabella doesn't know it yet, but her time is running out. She's living on borrowed time, and soon, that time will be up.

And when it is, Antonio will be mine.