But instead of panic, I feel something else rising—defiance. White-hot, burning defiance.
I built this empire from nothing. From grief and rage and sheer stubborn will. I will not let him tear it down. I won't.
"Get our PR team on damage control," I say, my voice steady even though I'm shaking inside. "And find out how Dubois got her information. Someone talked, and I want to know who."
Lucy nods, relief flooding her face. She needs me to be strong right now, so I will be. I'll fall apart later, in private, like I always do.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of crisis management and tense phone calls. By the time I leave the office, I'm exhausted, running on pure adrenaline and stubborn will. My head is pounding. My hands won't stop shaking. I feel like I might shatter into a thousand pieces.
I drive home through the city streets, the evening light turning everything amber and gold. But the beauty of it is lost on me. Because I can feel it—that prickling sensation at the back of my neck. The certainty that I'm being watched.
I check my rearview mirror. Cars behind me, but nothing unusual. No one following too close. No one obvious.
But the feeling doesn't go away. It intensifies, becoming almost physical. My hands tighten on the steering wheel, and I force myself to breathe slowly. This is stress. Paranoia. A natural response to everything that's happening.
Except it doesn't feel like paranoia. It feels like the truth.
I make it home and lock the door behind me, my heart racing. The apartment is exactly as I left it, but it doesn't feel safe anymore. Nothing feels safe.
I pour myself a glass of wine with shaking hands and try to work in my home office, reviewing sketches for the spring line. But I can't focus. My mind keeps circling back to the perfume, the rose, the feeling of being followed. The stranger at the ball with his dark eyes and his whispered promises.
And then, like a bolt of lightning, an idea strikes me. A reckless, dangerous idea that makes my pulse quicken.
If someone is watching me, why not acknowledge it? Why not communicate back?
I should call the police. I should install more security.
But I'm so tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of being strong. Tired of doing everything alone.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab a piece of my personal stationery—heavy cream paper with my monogram embossed at the top. I uncap my fountain pen, and in careful handwriting, I write four words:
"You have my attention."
I stare at the note, my heart pounding. This is insane. I should be calling the police, installing more security, hiding. But instead, I'm... engaging. Inviting whoever this is deeper into my life.
I'm so tired of being afraid. So tired of feeling like a victim in my own life. If someone wants to play games, then fine. Let's play.
Maybe I'm broken. Maybe I'm making the worst mistake of my life.
But right now, with Bryce destroying my reputation and my business crumbling and the world closing in—this feels like the only choice I have left.
I place the note in the center of my desk, perfectly aligned, impossible to miss. Then I walk away, leaving it there like an offering. Or a challenge.
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, my body thrumming with an energy I can't name. Fear, yes. But also something darker, more thrilling. I've spent years building walls, maintaining control, keeping the world at arm's length.
Now someone has breached those walls, and instead of terror, I feel... alive. Seen. Known in a way I haven't been since before everything fell apart.
It's wrong. I know it's wrong. But as I finally drift off to sleep, my last thought is not of calling the police or running away.
It's wondering what he'll do next.
And hoping—God help me, hoping—that it's the stranger from the ball. The man who held me like I was precious. Who whispered that he saw all of me.
I want it to be him.
Even though wanting that probably means I'm already lost.
Chapter 6 - Nathan
