Two security guards appear in the doorway, and relief washes over me so intensely I feel dizzy.
I meet Bryce's eyes with perfect calm that I don't feel, ice meeting fire. "Gentlemen, this man is trespassing. Please remove him."
They take his arms, professional and efficient. Bryce struggles for a moment, then allows himself to be led away, still shouting threats and insults that echo down the hallway.
The spa attendant appears, her face pale with apology and horror. "Miss Sinclair, I am so sorry. I don't know how he got past the front desk. We'll be reviewing our security protocols immediately. Please, let me—"
"It's fine." I lie back down on the table, but my hands are shaking so badly I have to hide them under the robe. "I'd like to reschedule my appointment, please."
As I leave the spa ten minutes later, fully dressed and carrying my roses like a shield, I feel the violation of Bryce's presence like a stain I can't wash off. He'd invaded my sanctuary, the one place I felt safe. He followed me here. Watched me. Waited for the right moment to corner me.
I make it to my car before I start crying. Not pretty tears—ugly, gasping sobs that shake my whole body.
I'm not safe anywhere. Not at work. Not at home. Not even here.
But underneath the anger and disgust and fear, there's something else. A cold, analytical part of my brain noting that Bryce's desperation is escalating. That he's becoming unpredictable, dangerous.
And that he's just one piece of a much larger, more terrifying puzzle.
***
The private investigator's office is exactly what I expected—functional, anonymous, tucked away in a building that's seen better days. Gideon Rivers looks like he walked out of a noir film: graying hair, sharp eyes, and a face that's seen too much.
"Miss Sinclair." He gestures to the chair across from his desk. "Your assistant said you needed someone discreet."
"I do." I sit, clutching my purse in my lap like armor. "I need you to look into several incidents. I believe they're connected, but I can't prove it."
I tell him everything. The misplaced book. The perfume. The black rose. The first edition of The Odyssey that no one should have known about. Bryce's threats and the subsequent professional sabotage. Leo's sudden disappearance. Today's incident at the spa.
My voice shakes when I talk about Bryce following me. About feeling unsafe everywhere.
Gideon takes notes, his expression neutral and professional. When I finish, he leans back in his chair, and I can see him processing.
"You're being stalked," he says bluntly. "Possibly by someone with significant resources and technical knowledge. The question is whether it's the same person orchestrating the professional attacks or if you're dealing with multiple threats."
The word "stalked" makes it real in a way it wasn't before. I wrap my arms around myself.
"Can you find out who?"
"I can try. But Miss Sinclair, if this person is as sophisticated as you're describing, they've covered their tracks carefully. It may take time."
"I don't have time." The words come out sharper than I intended, edged with desperation. "My company is under attack, my personal life is being invaded, and people around me are disappearing. I need answers now."
He meets my eyes steadily, and I see something like sympathy there. "I understand. I'll start with Bryce Royston—he's the obvious suspect. But I'll also look into your business competitors, anyone who might benefit from Sinclair Designs' collapse."
I nod. "Whatever you need."
We discuss logistics and fees, and by the time I leave his office, I feel a small flicker of hope. Finally, I'm taking action instead of simply reacting to whatever horror comes next.
Finally, someone is going to help me.
But as I step out onto the street, that familiar prickling sensation returns—the feeling of being watched. I scan thecrowd, the windows, the cars parked along the street, my heart racing.
Nothing. No one.
Just the ghost that's been haunting me, invisible and omnipresent.
And somehow, despite everything, I'm not sure if I'm more afraid of finding him or of never knowing who he is.
