My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom - Chapter 2: Chapter 2
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Vincent Lowell's behavior during my stay grew more unsettling by the day.
His fingers would linger a second too long when handing me a glass, brushing against my skin like an accident that wasn't. At dinner, he'd hover, serving me portions with a smile that didn't reach his eyes—just a fixed, unnerving stare that made my stomach twist.
Then came the bathroom incident.
The door flew open without warning while I was inside. I gasped, scrambling to cover myself, face burning with humiliation. Vincent just stood there, feigning surprise.
"Didn't realize you were in here," he said, shrugging.
A lie. The light had been on, its glow spilling under the door. He knew.
But that wasn't the worst of it.
A month later, my lingerie started disappearing from the balcony—first a bra, then another, then panties. Soon, half my undergarments were gone. When I finally confronted him, voice trembling, he barely looked up.
"Must've blown away in the wind," he muttered, shaking his head.
Then his hand slid down my back—slow, deliberate—before he walked off, leaving me rooted in place, my breath trapped in my chest.
I swallowed my protests. I had nowhere else to go.
Vincent drank heavily. Most nights ended with the sound of shattering glass or furniture slamming against walls. I'd curl up in my room, barely breathing, listening. At six-foot-three, he loomed like a shadow, his bloodshot eyes and unshaven jaw making my skin crawl. Just his presence felt like a weight pressing down on me.
But I refused to go back home. If I could just land a job, save enough—I'd get out.
I sent out applications like a woman possessed, desperate for an escape.
Then, one night, after an exhausting interview, I collapsed into bed without even changing.
Half-asleep, my eyes snapped open.
A sound.
A soft click. The turn of a lock.
Vincent had a spare key.
My throat tightened. "Qingjun?" I called out, forcing steadiness into my voice. "Did you hear that?"
Silence.
I slid out of bed, bare feet silent on the floor, and pressed my ear to the door. Nothing. Just the hammering of my own pulse.
I dragged the nightstand in front of the door, balancing a glass on its edge—my makeshift alarm. Then I grabbed the scissors from the drawer, gripping them like a lifeline.
Crouched in the dark, I waited.
Fifteen minutes.
Then—
Tap... tap... tap...
Footsteps. Retreating.
He'd been there. Standing. Waiting.
His fingers would linger a second too long when handing me a glass, brushing against my skin like an accident that wasn't. At dinner, he'd hover, serving me portions with a smile that didn't reach his eyes—just a fixed, unnerving stare that made my stomach twist.
Then came the bathroom incident.
The door flew open without warning while I was inside. I gasped, scrambling to cover myself, face burning with humiliation. Vincent just stood there, feigning surprise.
"Didn't realize you were in here," he said, shrugging.
A lie. The light had been on, its glow spilling under the door. He knew.
But that wasn't the worst of it.
A month later, my lingerie started disappearing from the balcony—first a bra, then another, then panties. Soon, half my undergarments were gone. When I finally confronted him, voice trembling, he barely looked up.
"Must've blown away in the wind," he muttered, shaking his head.
Then his hand slid down my back—slow, deliberate—before he walked off, leaving me rooted in place, my breath trapped in my chest.
I swallowed my protests. I had nowhere else to go.
Vincent drank heavily. Most nights ended with the sound of shattering glass or furniture slamming against walls. I'd curl up in my room, barely breathing, listening. At six-foot-three, he loomed like a shadow, his bloodshot eyes and unshaven jaw making my skin crawl. Just his presence felt like a weight pressing down on me.
But I refused to go back home. If I could just land a job, save enough—I'd get out.
I sent out applications like a woman possessed, desperate for an escape.
Then, one night, after an exhausting interview, I collapsed into bed without even changing.
Half-asleep, my eyes snapped open.
A sound.
A soft click. The turn of a lock.
Vincent had a spare key.
My throat tightened. "Qingjun?" I called out, forcing steadiness into my voice. "Did you hear that?"
Silence.
I slid out of bed, bare feet silent on the floor, and pressed my ear to the door. Nothing. Just the hammering of my own pulse.
I dragged the nightstand in front of the door, balancing a glass on its edge—my makeshift alarm. Then I grabbed the scissors from the drawer, gripping them like a lifeline.
Crouched in the dark, I waited.
Fifteen minutes.
Then—
Tap... tap... tap...
Footsteps. Retreating.
He'd been there. Standing. Waiting.
End of My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom Chapter 2. Continue reading Chapter 3 or return to My Landlord’s Hidden Camera in Our Bathroom book page.