"You should see me in a catering vest and a wig that smells like a carpet store."
"True." The smallest hint of a curve at the corner of his mouth. "But tonight you look like someone who belongs at a charity gala instead of someone about to commit crimes at one."
"The night is young."
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
I froze.
The screen lit up with a text. No words at first — just an image loading, the progress bar crawling across the screen.
My stomach dropped before I even saw it.
It was me. Asleep in my bed. The angle was from above — someone standing over me, looking down. My face slack, hair spread across the pillow, completely defenseless. Completely unaware. The tapestry I'd hung over the graffiti had been yanked aside — they'd wanted me to see it.I SEE YOUin red across the brick, framing my sleeping face.
A second text followed:I see everything you do. You can't hide from me.
The air left my lungs like someone had punched it out.
"Charlie." Dominic's voice was sharp. He'd heard me go quiet — which for me was louder than screaming. "What is it?"
I handed him the phone. Couldn't speak.
His expression went flat. Not angry — ice. The temperature in the SUV dropped ten degrees.
"Pull over," I said.
He was already pulling over. Side street, SUV in park, dome light on. He studied the phone, fingers moving across the screen. I watched his jaw work while he checked the screen.
"Metadata," he said after a moment. His voice was level — so level it meant he was keeping fury on a very short leash. "Photo was taken approximately two weeks ago. Before I started this detail. Before you changed your locks."
Two weeks ago. Someone had been in my apartment. Standing over my bed while I slept. Close enough to touch me. Close enough to do anything. And I'd never known.
"They had access before Heartline," Dominic continued. "They took this before the break-in — same period when they had access to your place. They've been sitting on it. Holding it like a card they could play when they wanted to shake you."
"Why send it now?"
"Psychological warfare. They want you rattled. Want you to know that even with a bodyguard, they had you first. That they still have pieces of you — photos, files, access to your life." He set the phone down and looked at me. "This is designed to make you feel unsafe. To break your confidence."
"It's working." My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
"It's designed to work. But look at what it actually tells us." He held up the phone. "This photo is two weeks old. They haven't been able to get to you since you changed the locks. Since Heartline's been involved. They're playing old cards because they don't have new ones."
"How do you know they don't have new ones?"
"Because if they had current access, they wouldn't need psychological warfare." He said it steady, matter-of-fact. Like he was laying out evidence, not trying to comfort me. "They'd act. The fact that they're sending old photos means you've cut off their access and they're scrambling."
I stared at the photo on the screen. My own sleeping face staring back at me. Vulnerable in a way I never let anyone see when I was awake.
"Hey." His hand covered mine on the center console. Warm, solid, his fingers wrapping around mine with a firmness that felt like an anchor. "You're not alone in this anymore. Whoever sent this wants you to remember what it felt like before. Don't give them that."
I took a breath. Then another. Shoved the fear into the same lockbox where I kept every other feeling I couldn't afford.
"I have a gala to crash."
He squeezed my hand once before letting go, pulling back into traffic. "Yeah, you do."
The Conservatory of Glass & Roses was the kind of beautiful that made you forget February existed.
