Prologue - Nathan
My penthouse office has become a shrine to her.
One wall is covered with photographs. Eve leaving her apartment in the morning, coffee in hand. Eve at her design studio, bent over a fabric table. Eve at a small gallery opening, smiling at something someone said. Eve alone in her apartment at night, working on sketches by lamplight.
But the photographs are static, frozen moments. The twelve monitors mounted on the opposite wall—those are alive. Real-time feeds from every angle of her life.
Right now, I watch three screens simultaneously. The main monitor shows her in her office at Sinclair Designs, studying fabric samples with that small furrow between her brows that appears when she's concentrating. Another screen captures her apartment, empty but waiting for her return. A third shows the street view outside her building, tracking every person who passes by.
I know her routine better than she does. Coffee at 7:15 AM, always from the shop on the corner of 8th and 22nd—I watch her walk there every morning, watch her smile at the barista, watch her add one sugar to her medium latte. She orders the same thing every day. She's kind to the barista, asks about his day, always tips well, even though her business is still finding its footing.
She works late most nights, long after her small team has gone home. Not because she has to, but because she's lost in the work. On the monitor, I watch her stand from her desk now, stretching her back with a small wince. She's been sitting too long. She does this—loses herself in her designs and forgets to move, forgets to eat.
I've watched her through these cameras for so long that I can predict her movements. She'll walk to the window next, look out at the city for a few minutes, then return to her work. She's done it a thousand times, and I've seen every single one.
There. She moves to the window, and I switch to a different camera angle, one that captures her face. Even in profile, even pixelated slightly by the zoom, she's beautiful. The way the late afternoon light catches in her hair. The soft curve of her cheek. The slight sadness that never quite leaves her eyes.
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen—a number I recognize. Senator Morrison.
I answer without taking my eyes off Eve. "Senator."
"Hale." His voice is tight, strained. "We need to talk about our arrangement."
"Do we?" I lean back in my chair, still watching Eve on the monitor. She's returned to her desk, picking up her pencil. "I thought our arrangement was quite clear."
"The zoning approval you wanted—it's going to raise questions. My colleagues are already asking why I'm pushing so hard for—"
"Senator Morrison." I let my voice drop to that tone that makes men nervous. "Do you remember what we discussed? About your... extracurricular activities?"
Silence on the other end. I can practically hear him sweating.
"The photographs I have are quite comprehensive," I continue, my eyes never leaving the screen where Eve is sketching. "Your wife would find them interesting. So would the ethics committee. And the press, naturally."
"You can't—"
"I can. And I will, if necessary." I watch Eve tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, that unconscious gesture she makes when she's concentrating. "But it won't be necessary, will it? Because you're going to approve that zoning variance. You're going to make sure the building inspection for 428 West 42nd Street passes without issue. And you're going to do it quietly."
428 West 42nd. The building Eve's studio is in. The building I now own, though she doesn't know it yet. The building I'm ensuring meets every safety standard, has every upgrade, provides her with the perfect workspace.
"That's not how—"
"That's exactly how this works, Senator. I have what you need—discretion. You have what I need—influence. It's a simple transaction." On the screen, Eve is smiling at something she's drawn. That smile makes my chest tight. "Do we understand each other?"
A long pause. Then, defeated: "Yes. We understand each other."
"Excellent. I'll expect the approval by the end of the week." I end the call without waiting for his response.
Men like Morrison are easy. Everyone has secrets, everyone has something they're desperate to hide. I simply make it my business to know what those things are. And then I use that knowledge to shape the world the way I need it to be.
To shape Eve's world the way it should be. Safe. Protected. Perfect.
She eats lunch at her desk now—I'm watching her do it on the monitor, the sandwich she brought from home in its glass container. She takes small bites, chewing thoughtfully, her attention still on her sketches. She's conscious of her weight ina way that makes my chest ache. I've watched her pause in front of mirrors through these cameras, seen the way she adjusts her clothing, tugging at fabric that doesn't need adjusting.
The fashion world has made her afraid of her own body. And I hate them for it.
On another monitor, I pull up footage from this morning—her at the gym. She goes three times a week, not because she enjoys it—I can see the reluctance in every step—but because she thinks she should. I've watched her on the treadmill, watched her glance at the timer every thirty seconds, counting down the minutes until she can leave.
I switch to another saved feed. Eve at the cemetery, on the 15th of last month. She visits her parents' graves once a month, always on the 15th. Always alone. I have a camera positioned discreetly near the grave site. I watch her sit there for thirty minutes, and when she leaves, her eyes are red, but her face is composed.
