The suspect pool is narrowing. Soon we'll have a name, a face, concrete evidence to move on.
Until then, I keep Simone alive. Keep her safe. Keep teaching her the difference between performing surrender and actually letting go.
I pour myself a glass of whiskey and settle into the chair facing the stairs. The security feeds cycle through their loops. Empty gardens, quiet perimeter, motion sensors silent.
Somewhere out there, the stalker's reviewing tonight's failure—close enough to photograph her but not close enough to breach the property. They'll adjust. Try a different approach.
Good. Let them adjust.
Gives me more time to find them first.
5
SIMONE
Iwake to sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains and the disorienting awareness that I'm not in my penthouse. The guest house. The Pascal estate. The protection detail.
The stalker.
My stomach tightens as yesterday's reality crashes back. The night before last, someone stood outside this house. Watching me through the window. Documenting my presence here like they'd documented every intimate moment I'd spent in Dominion's private rooms.
Luc found cameras yesterday. Multiple cameras planted in Dominion's private rooms.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand and check the time. Early. Early enough that I could get in a workout before my first video conference, but the memory of yesterday's protocol surfaces. I'm supposed to wait upstairs until Luc clears me to come down.
Part of me wants to ignore that command. Walk downstairs, pour my own coffee, reclaim some measure of control over my morning routine. But I remember the look on his face whenhe found me in the main house kitchen with Isabella. The controlled fury that told me I'd crossed a line that mattered.
The ones who survive follow protocols. The ones who don't survive take risks to feel normal again.
Which one am I going to be?
I text him instead:
Awake. May I come downstairs?
The response comes within seconds:
Give me five minutes.
I use the time to shower and dress—not the silk pajamas from last night, but the professional armor I need for today's video conferences. Charcoal slacks, cream blouse, hair pulled back in the sleek ponytail that says I'm in control even when everything feels like it's spiraling. The woman in the mirror looks like a CEO. She looks unshakeable.
But I know she's lying.
My phone buzzes.
Kitchen is clear. Come down.
I head downstairs, each step feeling like a small surrender. He's in the kitchen when I arrive, coffee already poured, morning light slanting through the windows that are no longer threatening now that the sun's up.
"Good morning, Sir." The words come easier than they did yesterday. Maybe because I spent half the night thinking about that moment at the dinner table when I felt steadier instead of falling apart.
"Morning." He hands me the coffee. "How did you sleep?"
"Better than I expected." I add cream, take a sip. "No nightmares about someone watching me through windows."
"Protocol helps." He leans against the counter, studying me with that assessment that makes me feel seen and safe at once. "You have video conferences this morning?"
"Executive team at nine, legal review at eleven, board chair at one." I pull out my phone and verify the schedule. "All critical. The executive team's going to have questions about why I'm working remotely."
