Why would someone like her choose to provoke someone like me? Why risk herself? Why act like she understands the world she’s stepping into?
Nikolai clears his throat. “Orders?”
I stub out the cigarette, watching the ember die.
“Keep eyes on her,” I say. “Discreet. I want to know her schedule. Who she meets. When she’s alone.”
“You want her brought in?”
“Not yet.”
He nods and leaves the room.
The door shuts behind him, and I open her article again. Her name sits there, proud and certain. She doesn’t flinch when she speaks on camera. She doesn’t lower her gaze. She doesn’t act like a girl who’s afraid of shadows.
She should be, because now she has my attention, and I don’t let things go once they land in my hands.
***
The city is quiet by the time I reach her block. I kill the headlights a street away, then ease the car forward until I can see the front of her building. The engine idles low, a steady hum under my hands. I sink back in the seat and watch.
Her windows glow with warm light. Soft. Lived-in. Nothing like the places I’m used to. There’s no symmetry, no expensive furniture, no polished surfaces. The curtains don’t match. One hangs slightly crooked. Small plants crowd the sill—overgrown, thriving, stubborn. A stack of books leans against the glass like a small tower.
It’s ordinary in a way that feels foreign.
I expected someone reckless enough to write my name online to live like she thinks she’s bulletproof. Instead, she lives like she believes in safety. As if she’s untouched by the world she challenged.
For a moment, I don’t think about threats or strategy. I think about how her space says more about her than the article ever could. Softness she doesn’t hide. Clutter that isn’t insecurity. A life she hasn’t learned to guard.
A shadow crosses behind one curtain. She moves through the room, blurry from this distance. A shape. A presence. She’s on the phone for a minute, pacing. Then the lights shift again. She changes clothes. She sits on the bed. Her computer screen lights her face in a pale glow.
She doesn’t close the blinds.
She has no idea who’s out here.
One of my men stands on the sidewalk near the corner, phone to his ear. He keeps watch without drawing attention. After a minute, he taps the window of my car and leans in.
“You want us to send a message?” he asks quietly. “Something small. Enough to shake her.”
It’s routine. A warning. A reminder of boundaries. A way to show we saw the article and didn’t appreciate the boldness.
Normally, I’d agree immediately.
I look back at that window. At her silhouette against the soft light. At the way she lifts her hands when she talks, even when she’s alone, like she’s arguing with herself or trying to make sense of something bigger.
“Sure,” I say. “Something small.”
I stay until past midnight. Her window goes dark around eleven thirty. The light flickers once, then disappears. She doesn’t return to it. She doesn’t peek outside. She doesn’t notice the car waiting in the shadows.
I don’t move. I watch the last sliver of movement disappear from the room. Only then do I start the car and pull away.
The drive back to the mansion is long and silent. The roads stretch out in dark, empty lines. My phone buzzes twice with updates from my men—her building is quiet, no unusual visitors, nothing out of place.
I answer none of it.
When I reach the estate, the guards open the gates without a word. The house looms in front of me, all stone and sharp lines, a monument to a life built on discipline and calculation. Inside, the hall is dim. The air smells faintly of smoke and whiskey.
I pour a drink without thinking, the glass cold against my fingers. I sit in the living room with the lights off and watch the reflection of the night settle across the windows.
