The tablet in his hand displayed surveillance photos that made my jaw clench so tightly I could feel a headache forming at my temples. Harris was getting closer, and the thought of his hands anywhere near Connor made something primal stir behind my carefully constructed control.
"He's been to the campus bookstore twice," Michael reported, his voice clinically detached as always. "Made inquiries using Connor's former name. Claimed to be a relative looking to deliver an inheritance. Same approach at the café."
I wheeled around sharply, my hands gripping the armrests until my knuckles whitened. "And the apartment?"
"His associates were there yesterday. Former roommates confirmed Connor hadn't returned since before your... meeting." Michael's hesitation on the last word was the closest he'd come to acknowledging the unusual circumstances of my marriage.
"Timeline?" I demanded, cutting through whatever diplomatic phrasing he might have been searching for.
"Based on increased activity, I'd estimate less than seventy-two hours before they make a connection to you."
Seventy-two hours. Three days before the predator hunting my husband discovered his new name, his new location, his new life.
"Double the security detail. I want eyes on him at all times," I said, my voice razor-edged. "Setup monitoring on all of Connor's old accounts, credit cards, social media—anything that might give us advance warning if they try to impersonate him or contact him directly."
Michael nodded, making notes on his tablet. "Already in progress. We've also initiated background checks on everyone in the building and a security upgrade for the penthouse systems."
"Not good enough." I moved to the window, staring down at the city below where Harris was out there somewhere, searching. "I want protective details on standby. If Harris approaches within a hundred yards of Connor, I want him intercepted."
"Julian," Michael said, using my first name—a rarity that indicated his concern. "We need to be careful about the legality of—"
"I don't care about legality," I snapped, spinning my chair to face him. "I care about Connor's safety. Whatever resources we need, whatever it costs—make it happen."
Michael's expression didn't change, but I caught the subtle straightening of his shoulders. "Understood. I'll coordinate with the team and update the protocols."
"And Michael?" I added as he turned to leave. "Get me everything on Harris—business dealings, personal history, every skeleton in his closet. I want leverage."
"Already compiling a dossier," he replied, efficiently professional once more. "I'll have a preliminary report by evening."
After he left, closing the door with a soft click that somehow conveyed more than a slam could have, I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the situation settle across my shoulders like a familiar burden.
"He won't touch what's mine," I muttered to the empty room, the possessiveness in my voice surprising even me.
When had I started thinking of Connor in those terms? Not just as my legal husband or an unexpected physical compatibility, but as something—someone—I couldn't bear to lose?
I massaged my temples, then wheeled myself out of the office and down the hallway toward my study. I needed to warn Connor, to prepare him for what might be coming.
I found him standing before the built-in bookcase where I kept some personal items—awards, mementos, and a few carefully selected photographs from before the accident. He was holding one of the frames, his head tilted slightly as he studied the image.
For a moment, I simply watched him, taking in the casual grace of his stance, the way his borrowed t-shirt clung to his shoulders, the absent-minded way he tucked his hair behind his ear. When had this stranger become someone whose habits I noticed, whose presence I sought out?
"Find anything interesting?" I asked, breaking the silence.
Connor turned, not startled but not quite relaxed either. "Just getting to know the man behind the CEO title," he said, holding up the photograph—a corporate headshot taken about six months before the accident. "You never smile in these."
The observation was simple but unexpectedly perceptive. I moved closer, studying the image over his shoulder. The man in the photograph was impeccably dressed in a suit that cost more than some people's monthly salary, his expression confident but reserved, no hint of a smile softening his features.
"Most corporate photos aim for dignity and seriousness, not warmth," I replied, the rehearsed answer slipping out automatically.
Connor shook his head. "It's not just this one. None of them show you smiling, not the industry awards, not the charity galas, not even the vacation photos." He pointed to another frame, a perfectly composed shot of me on a yacht in the Mediterranean. "Was success really that serious a business?"
I reached for the frame he held, our fingers brushing momentarily. The brief contact sent a now familiar warmth through me, a sensation I was still adjusting to after years of numbness.
"I had less to smile about then," I said, surprising myself with the gentleness in my voice, the unintended truth in the words.
Connor's eyes widened slightly, searching my face with an intensity that made me want to look away. No one had looked at me like that since before the accident—like they were seeing past the wheelchair, past the wealth, past the carefully constructed facade to something underneath.
"And now?" he asked softly.
