---- Chapter 11 Ally Gomez POV: | stood in the doorway of my shoebox apartment, the cold London drizzle seeping into my bones. And there he was. Again. Hanson Ayers. Leaning against the wall as if he owned it, a ridiculously large bouquet of roses in his hand. He' d been at this for months. A relentless, one-man siege of grand, empty gestures. \'Ally,\" he said, pushing himself off the wall and stepping into my path. The arrogant smirk was gone, replaced by a look of strained sincerity. \"Please. Just talk to me.\" | didn' t break my stride. | looked through him, my gaze fixed on the peeling paint of my apartment door. He was an obstacle. An inconvenience. Nothing more. \'I' m sorry, okay?\" he said, desperation creeping into his voice as he hurried to keep up with me. \"For everything. But you have to admit, what we had... it was real. The nights were real. | was the one with you, not him. Let' s just start over. Just me and you.\" | stopped. | finally turned my head and let my eyes meet his. | regarded him with the same detached curiosity | might give a piece of lint on my coat. There was no anger. No pain. There ---- was nothing. The space inside me where he and his brother used to reside was now a barren wasteland, salted and scorched so that nothing could ever grow there again. Then, | turned and continued walking, unlocking my door and disappearing inside without another word. | heard him slam the roses against the wall in frustration. The sound was satisfying. He didn't understand. He thought this was a game you could win with persistence, with money, with apologies. He couldn't comprehend that he and his brother had burned me down to the foundations. The girl he was trying to win back didn't exist anymore. He had killed her. The reports kept coming to Branson. Ally ignores Hanson. Ally throws his gifts in the trash. Ally treats him like he's invisible. And with each report, the strange mix of pleasure and panic inside him grew. He became more and more distant with Kennedy. Their dates felt like business meetings. Her kisses felt like an obligation. He started dreaming of me. Not just my face, but details he hadn't even realized he' d noticed. The way | would chew on my lip when | was deep in study. The quiet way | would place a mug of hot tea on his desk, never interrupting, just anticipating his needs. The flicker of joy in my eyes when I'd received the news about my Rhodes finalist interview, a joy he had systematically, cruelly extinguished. ---- This ghost of me, this collection of stolen moments and manufactured memories, was more real to him than the beautiful, living woman sleeping in his bed. The obsession was a slow poison, seeping into every corner of his life. In London, Hanson' s pursuit was also turning into an obsession, but of a different, more volatile kind. His failure to illicit any response from me was driving him mad. The easy charm that had always worked on other women was useless against my wall of absolute indifference. He started following me. Not with flowers and gifts, but from a distance, like a shadow. He' d park his car outside my university library and watch me study for hours. He' d stand across the street from the small cafe where | met with my study group. He saw me smile once. A small, fleeting thing in response to a joke a classmate made. A handsome British boy with kind eyes. The sight of it, that small, simple curve of my lips directed at another man, sent Hanson into a spiral. He couldn't stand it. That smile was a treasure he had never been given, and he couldn't bear to see it bestowed on someone else. That evening, as the British boy, whose name was Thomas, walked me home, Hanson emerged from the shadows. ---- \"Stay away from her\" he snarled, his eyes wild and bloodshot. Thomas, confused, stepped in front of me protectively. \ "Excuse me? Who are you?\" That was all it took. Hanson launched himself at Thomas, his fists flying. It was a raw, ugly, jealous rage. He was no longer the charming playboy. He was a cornered animal | screamed for him to stop, but he couldn't hear me. He was lost in a red haze of his own making. Security guards had to pull him off, his knuckles bloody, his chest heaving. | looked at him then, truly looked at the pathetic, violent creature he had become. And for the first time since | had run away, | felt something other than numbness. It was pure, unadulterated disgust: Title: A Princess? No! I'm the Female General! In "A Princess? No! I'm the Female General!" by CrushReel, Adela Taylor, a noble family's daughter, disguises herself as her brother to secure their Duke title by joining the army. Despite facing obstacles, she achieves remarkable success. 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