I allow myself a small smile. “Hate is a shield. Indifference is a weakness. If she disappears, she lives. If she tries to fight him in the open, she dies.”
Dima leans back against the window, studying me. “You sound like a man reciting a plan to the board. But you’re not looking at this like a strategist, Niko. Not anymore.”
He’s not wrong. I’ve been watching her for weeks. First as a job scanning her routines, learning her patterns, calculating threats and opportunities. It was supposed to end there. It never does.
Elara wakes before dawn. She texts her driver every morning at six fifteen, orders the same tea from the corner café, tips. She reads the news on her phone, sometimes withher thumb pressed to her lower lip, worrying at the skin until it reddens. When she’s nervous, she runs a hand through her hair, smooths the lines of her coat, makes herself invisible for a second before stepping into a room.
I have video. I have stills. I know the rhythm of her breath, the flicker of anxiety in her eyes when the crowd presses too close.
I tell myself this is due diligence. Obsession, in my world, is a requirement. The difference between professional and personal is a matter of timing, nothing more.
It’s a lie. I want her safe, but I want her close, inside the lines I control, protected by my reach, not his. Hale breaks women. I keep them. I save them, or I try to.
Dima clears his throat, pulling me back. “You can’t watch her forever.”
“Maybe not.” I rub a hand over my face. “I can keep her alive. That’s all that matters.”
He exhales, the sound heavy. “When she finds out you’re the reason she’s ruined?”
“She’ll have a choice,” I say. “Live in my shadow. Or die in his light.”
Dima shakes his head, a flash of something like pity in his gaze. “You’re playing with fire, Niko.”
I open my laptop, scroll through the live feeds, eyes searching for any sign of Elara. She’s out there—angry, wounded, likely plotting her revenge. I know the type. I know her. She’ll come for me. That’s how I want it.
Better her rage than her body on a slab, another woman lost to men who think ownership is their right.
The first vibration of the security panel is so subtle I almost miss it—just the faintest shift in the light, a ripple acrossthe edges of the screen. Dima catches it, glances over, and the tension in his shoulders ratchets up another notch.
He nods at the monitor. “You expecting company?”
I lean forward, flick to the camera feed on the front gate. There she is. Elara Quinn, alone, shoulders squared, her coat thrown over a dress that looks crumpled at the hem. No entourage, no press, just that spine of steel she keeps tucked beneath her skin.
She stares straight at the camera, no trace of hesitation.
Dima steps closer, voice low. “You want her here?”
I answer by pressing the release. The gate swings open. I want her anger in the room. I want to see if it’s the kind that burns clean, or the kind that leaves nothing but ash.
By the time she’s in the elevator, Dima is in my ear. “You shouldn’t let her in.”
I keep my eyes on the monitor. “She was always going to come. Sooner’s better.”
He shakes his head. “You’re making this personal.”
I don’t argue. I’m already gone, heading for the private foyer, pulse ticking up as I wait for the elevator to open. I hear the hum of the cables, the mechanical sigh of the doors, and then she’s there, flushed, wild-eyed, clutching her purse like a weapon.
She wastes no time. “You.” Her voice is a blade.
I let the doors slide shut behind her. “Me.”
She steps forward, closing the space between us. Her hands shake, but her voice doesn’t. “You think you can ruin my life and hide up here behind security glass and bodyguards? You think I won’t fight back?”
I study her face. She’s red around the eyes, mouth set, jaw tight enough to ache. Beautiful, even now, maybe especially now.
“You made it past the gates. Impressive.”
She throws her purse down on the entryway table, like she wants to shatter it.
