[Rory’s POV]
My phone has become a weapon of psychological warfare.
Dozens of messages from Nathan have accumulated since the charity date, each notification another tiny stab of anxiety.
When can I see you?
You felt something too, I know you did.
I can't stop thinking about you, Viola.
And my personal favorite: "I'll find a way to see you. You can't hide forever."
Charming. Really selling that non-stalker energy there, Nathan.
I block his number without ceremony. The relief is immediate—like finally removing a pebble from your shoe after a marathon. Sanctuary achieved.
But sanctuary has an expiration date of approximately fourteen hours.
The next morning, I'm in the break room nuking my sad desk lunch when footsteps approach behind me.
"Hey, Rory. Got a minute?"
Nathan leans against the counter, arms crossed, that boyish smile firmly in place. He's looking at me—actually looking at me—which never happens. In five years of shared building space, he's perfected the art of pretending I don't exist.
Today, his eyes are focused. Searching.
"I was just leaving," I say, reaching for my container.
"This'll only take a second." He doesn't move from blocking my exit. "You work in data analysis, right? Pretty integrated with company events?"
"Sometimes."
"I'm looking for someone. A woman named Viola—she modeled at the LuxeGlow event. Platinum blonde, green eyes." His expression shifts into something unsettlingly manic. "You wouldn't know anything about her? Maybe seen her around the building?"
My heart slams against my ribs. He's asking me about myself. Standing three feet from the answer and completely oblivious.
"I don't really follow the modeling stuff," I manage, shrugging. "Maybe check with event coordination?"
"Already did. It's weird—she appeared out of nowhere and now she's basically a ghost. Can't find her anywhere."
Because she's standing right in front of you, you absolute idiot.
"Sounds frustrating. Hope you find her." I edge toward the door.
His gaze lingers one horrible moment too long, scanning my face like he's searching for something he can't quite name. Then he steps aside with that hollow smile.
I walk back to my desk fighting the urge to run. The encounter leaves me feeling like something's crawling beneath my skin—violated in a way I can't quite name.
That evening, Grayson's driver picks me up three blocks from my apartment—precautions have become second nature now. The members-only club he's chosen makes Le Bernardin look like Applebee's.
Dark wood, velvet everything, chandeliers dripping crystals—the kind of place where membership costs more than my annual salary.
Grayson waits at a corner booth, silver-streaked temples catching candlelight. He stands when I approach, which shouldn't make my stomach flutter but absolutely does.
"You look troubled." He gestures for me to sit. "The Viola persona usually hides it better."
"Am I that obvious?"
"To most people? No. But I didn't build an empire by missing details." He pours champagne, bubbles catching light like tiny stars. "Talk to me."
"Maybe I'm just tired of performing." I accept the glass. "Even goddesses need nights off."
"Then don't perform." His gray eyes hold mine with unexpected warmth. "I find the unpolished version far more interesting."
The sincerity catches me off guard. We order—oysters, steak, something with truffle that costs more than my car payment—and conversation flows easier than expected.
"Worst first job," he says suddenly. "Go."
"Haunted house. I played a dead girl in a coffin. Terrified myself more than the customers—every time someone screamed, I'd flinch and ruin the whole effect." I take a sip. "You?"
"Mucking stables. Twelve years old, five dollars an hour, more horse manure than any child should encounter."
"The future CEO, shoveling literal shit. There's a metaphor in there somewhere."
"Character building." His lips twitch. "Though I prefer metaphorical shit these days. Better suits."
I laugh—actually laugh—and something warm unfurls in my chest. We're halfway through appetizers when he sets down his fork, studying me with those sharp gray eyes.
"You keep checking your phone. Either I'm boring you, or something's wrong."
"You're definitely not boring me." I take a breath, setting down my champagne. "There's this man. He won't take no for an answer."
Grayson's expression hardens into granite. "How long?"
"Since the charity dinner. Dozens of messages daily. I blocked him today, but—" I stop, swallowing. "Don’t bother, it’s nothing."
"Describe him."
"Grayson—"
"Describe him." Pure steel.
"Pushy. Entitled. The kind of man who hears 'no' and thinks 'not yet.' He showed up at the LuxeGlow event drunk and aggressive. Now he's escalating."
Grayson's fingers wrap around his whiskey glass like he's imagining someone's throat. "Has he touched you?"
"He tried. At the event. I handled it."
"You shouldn't have had to handle it alone."
"I wasn't alone." I meet his eyes. "Someone intervened. You did, actually."
Recognition flickers across his features. The bathroom. Nathan stalking towards me unsteadily. My trembling hands and smeared lipstick.
"Nathan Cole." His voice drops to something dangerous. "From sales."
I don't confirm or deny. I don't have to.
"He's been on thin ice for months. Performance issues, inappropriate behavior with female colleagues." Grayson sets down his glass with deliberate calm. "Consider the ice officially broken."
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing illegal. Nothing traceable." A cold smile. "But Nathan Cole will learn that harassing someone under my protection has consequences."
The statement should feel possessive. Controlling. The kind of alpha-male nonsense that usually makes me roll my eyes hard enough to see my own brain.
Instead, it feels like safety.
"No one harasses someone under my protection," he says quietly. "No one."
For the first time in days, the tension knotting my shoulders begins to unwind. Someone believes me. Someone with actual power is willing to use it on my behalf.
"Thank you." The words come out smaller than intended. More vulnerable.
"Don't thank me yet." His expression softens—just fractionally, just enough. "Thank me when it's handled."
The drive home feels different. Lighter. I catch myself humming along to the radio, the weight of Nathan's obsession temporarily lifted from my chest.
My apartment complex comes into view. I pull into my usual spot, gathering my clutch and the remnants of Viola's confidence.
But as I step out, movement catches my eye.
Across the street, a car idles in the shadows. Dark sedan. Tinted windows. Engine purring like a predator waiting.
I freeze, keys biting into my palm.
Then the car pulls away, taillights disappearing around the corner like it was never there. Just a neighbor. Just someone lost. Just a coincidence.
Probably.
I walk toward my building fighting the urge to look over my shoulder. The night feels colder suddenly, shadows darker, every sound amplified into potential threat.
Probably nothing.
Probably.
Inside, I double-check the locks. Then check them again. Milo sleeps peacefully in his room, blissfully unaware his mother's double life might be catching up with her.
I stand at the window, peering through the blinds at the empty street below.
The car doesn't return. The night stays quiet. But sleep comes slowly, interrupted by dreams of headlights in the darkness and a man who won't stop searching for a woman who doesn't exist.