I couldn't breathe.
I stared at the photo, my sleeping face illuminated by the glow of Damien's screen. My eyes were closed, lips slightly parted, the sheets tangled around my body like a trap.
And someone had been there. Watching. Close enough to take that picture. Inside my apartment. Inside my bedroom.
A cold, invisible hand clamped around my throat.
"No," I whispered. "That's not—there's no way."
Damien didn't say anything. He just studied me, eyes sharp and unreadable.
"I lock my doors," I went on, my voice shaking. "I double-check them every night. No one has a key except me—"
"And your landlord," he cut in.
I flinched. "He's a ninety-year-old man with arthritis."
Damien's jaw tightened. "Then someone else got in."
I grabbed the phone from his hand, my fingers trembling. I zoomed in on the photo, looking for a clue. Something. Anything.
But all I saw was myself. Completely unaware.
Completely exposed.
A wave of nausea rolled through me.
Damien stepped forward and gently took the phone from my hand again. "You're not going back there tonight."
"I—what?"
"You're staying here."
My heart jumped, but I didn't have the strength to argue. Not with my knees shaking beneath me and the image of that photo burned into my skull.
Still, I tried. "I can't just move into your penthouse like some kept woman—"
"You're not moving in," he said. "You're staying until I know who's watching you."
He didn't phrase it like a suggestion. It was a decision.
A line drawn in concrete.
I exhaled shakily and looked at him. Looked.
Damien Strickland wasn't just furious. He was cold. Controlled. Lethal.
Whoever sent that picture had just signed a death warrant. I saw it in his eyes.
He took out his phone again, dialling someone. "Get security on Selene's building. All exits. Pull surveillance from the last seventy-two hours. And sweep the apartment."
He didn't look away from me as he spoke. Like I might shatter if he did.
I hated how much safer I felt with him here. I hated that it mattered.
When the call ended, Damien tossed the phone down and stepped closer.
"You're not alone," he said softly. "Not anymore."
My lips parted, but I couldn't speak.
I didn't know what I was supposed to say.
I just nodded.
He reached out, like he might touch me, but didn't. His hand hovered near my waist, close enough to feel the heat of his skin through the silk of my blouse.
He looked like he was fighting something. Himself.
"You'll stay in the guest suite," he said after a beat. "You can work from here tomorrow. No one needs to know."
"But what if—"
"I'll handle it."
His voice left no room for doubt.
And still, part of me trembled.
Not from fear.
From something else.
Something deeper.
I should've been terrified that someone had broken into my home. Violated my privacy. Watched me sleep.
But what scared me more, what really made my heart pound was how much I wanted to stay here.
With him.
In his world.
Under his protection.
Under his control.
My phone buzzed again. Another message.
But this time, it wasn't a photo.
It was a recording.
A voice. Whispering.
Selene.
Selene.
You look so peaceful when you sleep.
I dropped the phone.
Damien caught it before it hit the floor.
Then he looked at me.
"Pack a bag," he said, his tone flat and final. "You're not going back."
I didn't argue.
I couldn't.
Not when my name still echoed in my ears.
Not when I finally understood.
This wasn't just some stalker with a camera.
This was personal.
And whoever it was,
They were already too close.
I didn't sleep that night.
Even with the reinforced locks, the state-of-the-art security, and Damien's silent presence somewhere down the hall, I couldn't stop hearing that voice.
Selene.
You look so peaceful when you sleep.
Like a needle threading through my spine, it repeated itself. Over and over. A ghost inside my skull.
By the time the sun bled weak light through the windows, I was already up, pacing in one of Damien's oversized T-shirts. My bag sat untouched on the guest bed. The plush white sheets were barely disturbed.
I jumped at every creak. Every hum of the elevator.
And yet, I still felt watched.
Like eyes crawled over me from shadows I couldn't see.
By the time I walked into the penthouse kitchen, Damien was already there. Black shirt, sleeves rolled. Coffee in hand, jaw tight.
"You didn't sleep," he said.
It wasn't a question.
I shook my head.
He poured a second mug and handed it to me wordlessly. His fingers grazed mine. Warm. Solid. Real.
The contrast between him and the night before made something in me ache.
"I have my team scrubbing the metadata from the image," he said. "There's no timestamp, no GPS, nothing. The file was stripped before it was sent."
"That means they know what they're doing," I murmured.
He nodded. "Very."
I sipped the coffee, even though my stomach was too twisted to take it.
"What if this has nothing to do with me?" I said quietly. "What if it's about you?"
Damien's jaw clenched. "Everything is about me. Eventually."
There was something in his voice that scared me more than the message did. Something resigned.
I stared at him. "Then why let me stay?"
He looked at me, eyes suddenly sharp.
"Because I don't trust anyone else to protect you."
A beat of silence.
Then…
A knock at the door.
Not the elevator.
Not security.
The actual door.
Damien moved first. Fast. Silent. The gun was already in his hand by the time he reached it.
I stood frozen, heart thundering.
He opened the door.
No one was there.
Just a box.
Small. Black. Wrapped in red ribbon.
He bent, picked it up, and examined it.
No markings. No card.
He handed it to me.
"You should open it," he said carefully.
My fingers trembled as I untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.
Inside was a single silk hair ribbon.
Familiar.
I stared at it, breath stalling in my throat.
I'd worn it to bed three nights ago.
The night I'd fallen asleep watching Roman Holiday. The night I woke up, thinking I'd left the window open by mistake.
My hands dropped the box. It hit the marble floor with a soft clatter.
Damien was already pulling out his phone, voice like steel. "I want all exterior footage pulled again. Check for any blind spots. Somebody left that package without triggering a single alarm."
I backed away.
My knees hit the edge of the kitchen island.
The air felt thinner here. Colder.
And then…
My phone buzzed.
Not once.
Not a message.
A FaceTime request.
From an unknown number.
Damien reached for it, but I answered first.
The screen lit up.
Darkness.
Then a single flickering candle.
And behind it was a wall.
Covered in photographs.
Dozens of them.
All of me.
Sleeping.
Laughing.
Walking to work.
Changing clothes through a sliver in my curtain.
I gasped. Dropped the phone again.
But the screen didn't go dark. It stayed lit, the camera still rolling.
Still showing me everything.
"Selene," Damien said, voice low. "Look at me."
But I couldn't.
I couldn't take my eyes off the wall in the video.
Because in the centre, was a new photo.
One I hadn't seen before.
Damien and I.
From last night.
On his balcony.
His hand was on my lower back.
His lips were near my ear.
A private moment.
That no one should've seen.
And under the photo a message written in lipstick:
MINE.