Chapter 7
Samantha
California sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the mansion, casting shadows across my half-packed suitcase. I folded my clothes methodically, each movement more controlled than I'd expected. Honestly, this calm surprised even me.
I deliberately left behind all the luxury items Ryan had given me—the Hermès bags, Cartier watches, those gaudy jewels that were never my style anyway.
I only took my photography equipment and a few simple clothes. These things actually belonged to me.
On the vanity, I placed that damn engagement ring next to a simple note:
[Ryan, I need space to think. The woman you fell in love with deserves better than being someone's second choice. -S]
Before closing the door, I spoke to the empty room: "Three years of my life... But maybe that's exactly what I needed."
Then softly closed the door: "Time to remember who I really am."
The small apartment near UCLA was a sharp contrast to the Malibu mansion, but honestly, I found it comfortable. One bedroom, one living room, simple and clean, without all that pretentious decoration.
The landlord, a middle-aged guy, looked concerned: "Are you sure this place is okay? It's quite a downgrade from Malibu."
I replied calmly: "Sometimes you need to strip away the noise to hear the truth."
As I organized my photography equipment, I couldn't help but smile. These were my real treasures—professional lenses, tripods, flash units. My hands were steady, movements professional. Even I was somewhat surprised.
"I forgot how much I love my own work," I murmured.
My phone kept buzzing with Ryan's calls and texts. I didn't even look, just hung up. I was more resolute than I'd imagined.
Meanwhile, Ryan was wandering around Los Angeles with various cameras. I knew he'd do this—after all, I'd observed him for three years.
He went to our usual coffee shop first, asking the barista: "Has a girl named Samantha been here? She loves the sound of camera shutters."
Then he frantically clicked his Canon shutter at empty chairs, the clicking sound particularly jarring in the coffee shop.
Passersby started filming his bizarre behavior: "Dude is literally photographing empty chairs like a maniac."
By evening, Ryan grew more desperate, loudly using his Leica and Nikon in public spaces, saying to the air: "Baby, can't you hear me? Our song is playing..."
Watching the videos spreading on my phone, I almost laughed out loud. Perfect.
TMZ's coverage came faster than I'd expected: "Photographer Ryan Mitchell seen frantically photographing empty spaces around LA."
Internet users began analyzing his behavior: "Poor Samantha dodged a bullet. Dude is clearly unhinged."
Entertainment commentators joined the discussion: "This behavior suggests deep psychological issues."
Public opinion began sympathizing with me, thinking I'd wisely escaped a mentally unstable man. How ironic—they thought I was the victim.
Sitting in my apartment's living room, I opened my laptop and calmly browsed news reports about Ryan.
Watching his desperate behavior in the videos, my expression was more like analyzing a case study than worrying about an ex-boyfriend.
"Interesting. Pattern recognition disorder triggered by separation anxiety," I analyzed while watching.
Opening my notebook, I began recording: "Subject exhibits compulsive audio-trigger seeking behavior."
Three years of observation finally paying off. "Three years of observation finally paying off."
While organizing my bookshelf, my true academic background was exposed. Rows of psychology, behavioral science, and conditioning research books, stuffed with research notes—clearly not the result of casual studying.
I pulled out "Operant Conditioning and Human Behavior Control," flipping to a marked page.
"Pavlovian conditioning through audio stimuli... just like I thought," I whispered.
Writing in my notebook: "Three-year field observation confirms theoretical hypothesis."
The book's annotations were clear: "Victim exhibits all predicted responses to sound conditioning."
My phone rang, showing an encrypted number. I answered without surprise.
"How's the Mitchell project progressing?" a low voice asked.
"Right on schedule. Subject is entering the breakdown phase," I replied coolly.
"Ready for phase two?"
I glanced at Ryan's desperate texts on my screen, corners of my mouth slightly rising: "Not yet. He needs to suffer more first."
In the darkness, I sat on the bed's edge, my expression completely different from before. Cold, calculating, even somewhat cruel.
Ryan's texts kept flooding in. "'Baby please come back, I can't live without you.'" I sneered: "Pathetic."
From the nightstand drawer, I pulled out a file folder clearly labeled "Project #17: R.Mitchell."
Opening the file: "Time to move to emotional destruction phase."
Finally, I spoke the truth to the darkness: "You haven't even begun to pay for what you did to her."
The game had just begun.