"What time frame, Mr. de Luca?" he asked, fingers navigating through the security system.
"Start at six," I said, leaning over the desk to see the monitors. "I want to see everyone, especially anyone carrying packages or flowers."
Marco nodded and pulled up multiple camera angles on the split screen. I watched intently as he cycled through the morning's footage, my jaw clenching tighter with each passing minute. Delivery people, residents, cleaning staff—they all blurred together.
"There," I said suddenly, pointing at a figure entering just after nine. "Stop there."
The screen froze on a slender man in a dark hoodie, his face carefully angled away from the cameras. He carried a small package wrapped in brown paper. Something about his deliberate movements, the way he seemed to know exactly where the cameras were, sent warning bells clanging in my head.
"Do you have a better angle on his face?" I asked.
Marco shook his head.
Annoyed, I watched as the desk attendant on screen nodded and made a call, presumably to Edward upstairs. The hooded figure left the package and turned to leave. His movements were unhurried and confident. Like he knew exactly what he was doing and wasn't worried about being caught.
"I want all footage from the past week," I said, my voice tight. "Every entrance, exit, the parking garage, everything."
Marco was already reaching for the phone. "I'll call the security director right away, sir."
"And I want someone watching the lobby at all times," I continued. "No deliveries unless they're from a verified source. No visitors without advance approval." I pulled out my wallet and slapped my business card on the counter. "Any suspicious activity, anything at all, you call me directly. Not the penthouse. Me."
"Yes, sir," Marco said.
I was halfway to the door when the security director emerged from a back room. I spent five more precious minutes barking instructions about increased patrols, additional cameras, and background checks on all building staff. By the time I finally broke free and got to my car, my hands were shaking with barely contained fury and fear.
As I sped to the studio, my mind raced through scenarios, each one more horrific than the last. What if the stalker wasn't content with notes and dead flowers? What if he decided to escalate? The thought of Cecelia hurt, or worse, made my stomach heave violently.
By the time I reached the studio, I'd nearly ground my molars to dust. Throwing the car in park, I vaulted onto the sidewalk and scanned the area for anyone suspicious before approaching the studio's entrance.
Elevate Dance Studio occupied the ground floor of a renovated industrial building, its large windows giving a clear view of the activity inside. Parents lined the hallway leading to the main studio, most of them glancing up as I burst through the door.
Ignoring their curious glances, I kept my attention fixed on the scene beyond the windows. Cecelia moved among a group of tiny girls in pink leotards and tutus. With the brightest smile, she knelt beside a little blonde girl and gently adjusted her arms into proper position. The child beamed up at her with undisguised adoration, then attempted the move again with comical seriousness.
Something caught in my throat as I watched. This was a side of Cecelia I'd never seen before—patient, nurturing, and completely in her element. The children responded to her with such trust, such excitement. She clapped her hands and they all formed a circle, each tiny dancer holding the hands of those beside them. Cecelia counted off, and they began a simple routine that involved a lot of hopping and giggles when someone inevitably went the wrong direction.
Despite the urgency that had driven me here, I found myself frozen in place, unable to look away from this picture. The fear and rage that had propelled me across the city momentarily receded, replaced by a different feeling altogether—a bone-deep certainty that what I felt for this woman was real and permanent and transformative.
I could see her with our children someday. The thought appeared fully formed in my mind, accompanied by a vision so clear it stole my breath. Cecelia, kneeling just like that, adjusting the posture of a little dark-haired girl with her mother's green eyes and her father's stubborn chin.
The forever feeling that had terrified me just hours ago now wrapped around my heart like a promise. Whatever threat was looming, whatever danger this stalker posed, I would eliminateit. Not just because Cecelia was mine on paper, but because she was essential to the future I suddenly couldn't imagine living without.
The sound of a bell chimed from inside the studio, signaling the end of class. Parents surged forward, gathering their tutued offspring with indulgent smiles. I remained where I was, watching as Cecelia hugged each child goodbye, offering enthusiastic high-fives and the occasional sticker for a job well done.
Then her gaze lifted and found mine through the glass. Her face lit up with a smile so bright it physically hurt to see it. But as she took in my expression—which must have betrayed some of the turmoil raging inside me—that smile faltered. She quickly finished her goodbyes to the last few students, then made her way to the door separating the studio from the hallway.
"Rafe?" she said as she approached, concern etched across her features. "What are you doing here? Is everything okay?"
I reached for her hand, needing the contact, needing to reassure myself that she was safe and whole. My fingers closed around hers with more force than I'd intended, and her eyes widened slightly.
"We need to talk," I said, my voice low and deadly serious. "Now."
Chapter 26
Cece
Rafe's face was carved from stone, all hard angles and tension, so different from the man who'd held me last night that for a moment I wondered if I was looking at a stranger. Sweat darkened his t-shirt, and his hair was wild, nothing like his usual perfect composure. Whatever had happened since he’d left this morning had transformed him into something dangerous. A predator ready to strike. My stomach immediately twisted into knots.
“Rafe, what's going on?” I glanced toward the door where parents were still gathering their children. “You look like someone died.”
