And whoever decided to target her, whoever thought they could send a message like this, has no idea what they’ve just unleashed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Zoe
The drive back to my apartment is silent. The kind of silence that feels like it might shatter if anyone breathes too hard. I stare out the window, watching the blur of streetlights as Rett navigates through the nearly empty streets.
My mind can’t stop replaying the images: shattered glass, toppled sculptures, papers strewn across my office floor. My laptop gone. And that single, ugly word spray-painted on the frame.
BITCH.
A chill runs through me again, just thinking about it. This wasn’t a random break-in. The perp took only pieces from exhibitions I’d curated. They went through my desk, my files. They left that message.
But why? Who would targetme? I’m an assistant curator at a mid-sized gallery. I’m not exactly swimming in enemies.
Unless...
My eyes dart to the rearview mirror, where I catch Rett watching me. He looks away quickly, but not before I see the intensity in his gaze. The same intensity I see in Dane’s rigid posture beside him, in Diego’s concerned glances from the seat next to me, in Tristan’s uncharacteristic silence on my other side.
Four alphas. Four claiming marks on my neck. And suddenly, my gallery gets hit with a personal, targeted break-in.
The timing is... suspicious.
“We’re here,” Rett says, pulling up in front of my building. The same building I left with them barely two hours ago, though it feels like a lifetime has passed.
I agreed not to stay alone tonight. Words I’d said in the shock of the moment back at the gallery. But now, looking at my familiar building, I’m having second thoughts. Surely I’d be fine with my door locked. Maybe a chair propped under the knob like in the movies...
Before I can voice these thoughts, all four of them are already out of the car, moving like a security detail again. A pack on a hunt.
“I can grab some things and we can go,” I say, fishing my keys from my purse. “I won’t be long.”
None of them relax. Rett’s jaw is set in that stubborn way I’m starting to recognize too well. Diego looks pained, like he knows what’s coming and doesn’t like it. Tristan is uncharacteristically somber, and Dane...well, Dane looks like he’s planning multiple escape routes and defensive positions simultaneously.
“You’re not coming back here until this is resolved,” Rett says, his voice level. “Not just for tonight. Until whoever did this is caught.”
I cross my arms, keys dangling from my fingers. “Wait, what? That’s not what I agreed to back at the gallery.”
“The break-in was a message, Zoe,” he continues. “They targeted your office. They have your information.”
A chill runs down my spine, but I wrap my arms tighter around myself, digging my fingers into my elbows.
“They took the office computer,” Dane says. “The one you’re logged into all day. How long until they have access to your emails? Your saved passwords? Your home address is in a dozen different files on that thing.”
The blood drains from my face. He’s right. My professional email account has years of correspondence. My digital calendar, a minute-by-minute map of my life. The donor database, with the private home addresses of half the city’s elite. And my own HR portal... my pay stubs, my emergency contacts, my home address. It’s all on that machine.
“Okay,” I say, my voice tight, my mind racing. “So I’ll call Helen. We have to notify the board. We’ll need to contact every donor on that list, warn them their data has been breached. And I’ll log in to the gallery’s account and change my user password.” I’m already running through a frantic mental checklist, each item a new wave of nausea. The legal fallout. The insurance claims. The catastrophic loss of trust. “I can handle this.”
“Can you handle them showing up here, at this door, tonight? Or tomorrow night? What about the night after that?” Rett asks, his voice quiet but unrelenting. “Because that’s the reality we’re facing.”
The world feels like it stops spinning.
“Can we talk about this inside?” Diego suggests, gesturing to the sidewalk where we’re standing. “It’s not exactly private out here.”
He has a point. I glance around, suddenly aware of how exposed we are. Mrs. Grant could be watching from her window. Anyone could be watching.
Including whoever broke into the gallery.
I nod, turning toward the building entrance.
