Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
My heart beats faster. No note. Never a note. Just a perfect red rose that Knox leaves like a breadcrumb marking his obsession.
A single rose: It means something different than a bouquet. Anyone can throw money at a dozen long-stems and call it romance. That’s easy. Expected. But a single rose? That’s intentional. That’s someone saying you’re the only thing I’m thinking about. One flower, one focus, one obsession. It’s not trying to impress with quantity. It’s confident enough to stand alone.
I’ve never told anyone that. Never mentioned it to friends, never written it down. But Knox figured it out anyway.
That’s either incredibly romantic or deeply unsettling. Possibly both.
I haven’t figured out how he beats me here. He can’t get here faster, I’d swear to it. But the rose is always waiting. Maybe he leaves it before the stalking. Maybe he’s that good. Either way, it’s impressive.
When did this start being romantic instead of concerning? When did I start looking forward to finding each rose?
I pick it up and unlock my door, carrying it inside like a trophy.
I add the rose to my collection near the kitchen window. Four stems now, hanging upside down, drying into something permanent. Outside the window, Brooklyn stretches out in a patchwork of lit windows and dark rooftops, the Manhattan skyline glittering in the distance.
I walk to the window and look down at the street. There, on the corner across from my building, Knox stands under a streetlight. He’s not even trying to hide now. His hands are shoved in his coat pockets, his breath misting in the cold air. Standing there. Watching my window like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Should I wave? Let him know I see him? No. Not yet.
The game isn’t over yet.
But our silent date has come to an end, so I close the curtains but leave them slightly parted. Not quite an invitation, but not a rejection either.
I see you, Knox Bishop. I see you.
Chapter Two
Knox
She knows.
I’m standing under the streetlight like a fucking amateur, watching her window, and the worst part is I don’t even care. Let her see me. Let her know I’m here. At this point, I’m past pretending this is about security protocols or threat assessment or any of the other bullshit I tell myself in the dark hours when I can’t sleep.
Her curtains are pulled shut now, but she left a gap. Enough light spilling through to cast a stripe of gold across the snow-dusted sidewalk. An invitation? A taunt? With Hailey, I never know.
I check my watch: 10:47. She won’t go to bed for hours. I know her patterns better than my own at this point. She’ll change into sweats, pour herself a glass of wine, curl up with whatever book she’s reading this week. Around midnight she’ll start sketching, designs that never make it past her notebook. I’ve seen her through the apartment windows, the way her silver rings catch the light as she moves her pencil across the page. Her lamp will stay on until 2 a.m., sometimes later.
I know all of this because I’ve been watching her for three months.
Before that, I watched her differently. From a distance. Professional observation only. Another person in Cole’s orbit who needed to be protected. But somewhere along the way, professional became personal, and I stopped pretending otherwise.
The cold bites through my coat and I welcome it. It reminds me I’m alive. Reminds me I’m real, standing on this street corner in Brooklyn like some lovesick psychopath. A dog barks somewhere down the block. A window slams shut three stories up. The neighborhood settling into sleep while I stand here like a ghost who doesn’t know he’s dead.
Hailey doesn’t need me. I’ve read her file, what little of it exists. Enough gaps to tell me someone didn’t want her past found. No employment history before Sloane. No social media footprint older than two years. A previous address in Chicago that leads to a building that burned down, all records lost. Enough fragments to know she survived things that would break most people.
She doesn’t need to be protected.
I need to protect her anyway.
A taxi honks somewhere down the block and I shift my weight, eyes fixed on that gap in her curtains. I lost her for almost half an hour tonight. Twenty-five minutes between Grand Central and Bergen Street where she was underground, out of reach. I’d left my car near Bryant Park and pushed through traffic, running every yellow light between Midtown and the bridge, but I couldn’t close the gap fast enough.
By the time I made it to her block, she was already inside. Door closed, lights on, safe.
Twenty-five minutes. Anything could happen in twenty-five minutes.
My phone buzzes. Cole.
Update on the Hartwell situation?
I type back without looking away from her building.
Handled. Meeting rescheduled for next week. Full briefing tomorrow.