"Ms. LaCroix, I didn't realize you had a meeting scheduled?—"
"I don't." I keep walking toward my office. "Hold my calls."
The operative follows me inside, takes up position by the door while I move to my desk. The other one stays in the hallway, presumably making sure no one comes in without clearance.
This is insane. I can't work like this. Can't run a company with armed guards monitoring my every move.
I pull up my email, start working through the urgent items.
A new email notification pops up. Subject line: Delivery Confirmation.
My stomach drops.
I click it before thinking better of it. It's another photograph—one from a more recent scene than the others, rope suspension, my body arched in a position that felt like flying at the time. Now it just looks vulnerable and exposed.
The text overlay is new.
Tonight you sleep alone. Tomorrow you won't.
That isn't voyeurism anymore. That's a countdown.
Ice slides down my spine. The office suddenly feels too exposed, too public. I glance at the door, but the operative's attention is focused on the hallway, professional and detached.
Something crashes in the hallway outside—my assistant's coffee mug hitting the floor, judging by the sound. I flinch hard enough that my chair rolls back from the desk.
He moves instantly, weapon appearing in his hand as he checks the hallway. "Clear. Just an accident."
But my hands are shaking as I close the email and delete it. Like that will make the threat disappear.
It won't. I know it won't. Dominion doesn't have cameras in the private rooms—privacy is paramount for members. Which means someone planted hidden cameras. A flicker of memory surfaced—someone in the hallway weeks ago. A man in work clothes carrying a tool case while the club was open. I'd barely noticed him at the time. They've been watching me for weeks,documenting everything without my knowledge. They know where I live, where I work, where I go to the gym. And now they're escalating.
Tonight you sleep alone. Tomorrow you won't.
The reality of it hits me like a physical blow. This isn't corporate espionage. This isn't a business rival trying to leverage my private life. This is someone who wants to hurt me. Who understands the psychology of power exchange well enough to weaponize it.
Someone who's been planning this for some time.
I force myself to breathe. To finish the urgent emails. To approve the documents that can't wait. But every sound makes me jump. Every shadow in my peripheral vision makes my pulse spike.
When I'm done—as done as I can be while my world is narrowing to photographs and threats and the knowledge that someone is coming for me—I stand and grab my bag.
"I need to go home and pack. My penthouse. Then the Pascal mansion."
The operative nods. "Yes, ma'am. He briefed us on the schedule."
Of course he did. Luc plans everything down to the minute.
The drive to my building takes longer than it should in late afternoon traffic. I crack the window, needing air. The city slides past—tourists and locals mixing in that particular New Orleans rhythm. Jazz drifts in from somewhere, a trumpet cutting through the traffic noise. The smell of jasmine and river water and something indefinable that's pure Louisiana.
This should feel like home. Except right now it feels like a prison closing in.
When we pull into my building's parking garage, everything looks the same as it always does. Expensive, secure, the kind ofplace where millionaires and old money families live in carefully maintained privacy.
Except it's not secure. Not anymore. Someone got past the doorman, past the security cameras, left a photograph at my door.
The driver turns to face me. "We'll need to clear your penthouse before you enter, Ms. LaCroix. Standard protocol."
"That's completely unnecessary." The words come out sharper than intended. "The building has excellent security. No one's been inside."
