Christ.
I drag a hand down my face, force myself to inventory the situation like I would any other problem requiring tactical assessment.
She didn't recognize me.
The disguise worked.
I followed her to Vegas via surveillance teams, tracked her every movement for three days, and flew here to watch her walk through an airport.
This is not normal behavior.
I don't give a fuck.
I pull myself together and step away from the wall, heading back towards the baggage claim. My steps are quick, almost frantic. I can't afford to miss a single moment—miss what she's doing, who she might be talking to, who might approach her. The thought of someone else catching her attention makes my jaw clench tight enough to hurt.
I force myself to slow down, adopt a casual posture despite the urgency coursing through me. This isn't a board meetingI can dominate with presence alone. This is surveillance, requiring patience and invisibility.
I need to see. Need to know. Need to watch her every move like oxygen.
There are only two baggage claims for the entire airport, so there she is. Standing like she hasn't got a care in the world as suitcases slide down the conveyor.
I freeze, watching a parade of Louis Vuitton bags tumble down the conveyor belt toward Scarletta. She lunges forward with uncharacteristic urgency, her small frame darting between other travelers as she snags one, then another. The third—an oversized monstrosity—eludes her grasp, but then a man's tanned arm reaches past her shoulder to hoist it effortlessly from the belt.
My vision narrows, tunneling onto this unwelcome intrusion. Every muscle in my body tightens as I analyze him—sculpted biceps straining against a fitted shirt, perfect teeth flashing in what he probably thinks is a charming smile. The type who measures his self-worth in protein shakes and bench press maxes.
He's pushing the bag toward her now. Their fingers brush. She's looking up at him, head tilted, lips moving in what appears to be gratitude. The familiarity between them radiates like a physical force, striking me with each second I observe their interaction.
What the hell is happening here?
Do they… do theyknoweach other?
The familiarity is unmistakable. They do. Who the hell is this guy? I'm frantically searching my brain, trying to figure it out, when he swings a backpack up on his shoulder.
The logo on the backpack reads Iron River Fitness.
Oh.
Fuck.
The gym owner. Ryan something.
I don't have access to cameras in the gym, they're on a private network with corporate level firewalls. Any time I want eyes on her in there, I've sent in spies. I used to have someone follow her there every day, but her routine is predictable and boring. She blends into the machines. Stays out of the way. Doesn't interact. So these days it's maybe once a week.
Less, actually, now that I think about it.
Did I miss something here?
Has she started a relationship with Ryan what's-his-name?
No. Impossible. She was dating Marty just three days ago.
So this is… nothing. It's nothing. Just two people in an airport…
Wait, are they walking out together? He's pulling two of her suitcases, she's pulling her carry-on and another case, and they're… yeah. They're walking out together!
What the fuck is happening here?
I stalk, careful to stay hidden in the meager crowd. Watching through the glass doors as they step into the August heat together.
