Chapter 23
CRISTIAN
After a tense standoff with Angelo, I walk down the hall to find the bed empty. The bathroom door is open, and the scent of lemon and vanilla hangs in the air from her shower.
It only takes one look at her as she applies her makeup to see that something has shifted this morning. She won’t look at me, and she’s dressed for a workout in a pair of leggings and a sports bra.
“Out of bed already?” I move in behind her, settling a hand on her hip as I meet her reflection in the mirror.
She tenses beneath my touch, and I don’t like it.
“I have a Pilates class,” she says.
Now I know she’s looking for an excuse to leave, because she reserves harder classes for her days off. Today isn’t one of them.
“How much of that did you hear?” I ask.
“Probably not all of it.”
Her response is toneless—armor meant to convince everyone she’s incapable of being hurt.
It weighs heavy on me, because I know I fucked up.
Things with Chantel have never been linear. Vulnerability destabilizes the system she’s built to protect herself, and the concept of trust terrifies her.
Whatever she heard in my conversation with Angelo validated her uncertainty. But I know better than to push her when fear has her in its grip. It’s the reason she ran from me in the first place, and it’s a mistake I won’t make twice.
She only surrenders in moments she feels safe. When she doesn’t, she retreats.
So as much as I hate it, I release her and give her some space.
“I’ll be here when you want to talk about it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” She tosses her makeup into her bag and zips it up. “I just want this to be over. You go back to your life, and I’ll go back to mine, and we can pretend this never happened.”
“No.”
Something sharp twists in my gut as she meets my reflection in the mirror with empty eyes.
“Angelo was right. There’s nothing in this for you.”
“Enjoy your class.” I scrape a hand over my face and stalk down the hall.
I’m in the kitchen checking the text from Bruno when I hear the front door slam. He’s here to pick her up, and I already have eyes on her outside. But it doesn’t stop me from pulling up the camera to make sure she’s safe as she gets in the car.
I assign two extra guards to follow her as an itchy feeling claws at my throat. I don’t like the idea of her out in the world with her stalker roaming free, and we still don’t know who he is.
Romeo and I planted surveillance in Black Velvet, and I’ve been trying to narrow down the pool of suspects. But so far, it hasn’t produced any solid leads. And as much as it might appeal to me to lock Chantel away, it would only make her hate me.
Once she’s gone, I make a quick call to Romeo to check in. It takes him forever to answer, and when he finally does, it’s clear that I woke him.
“Have you forgotten I don’t get up at the ass crack of dawn?” he grumbles.
“I need to know where we’re at on the stalker.”
He heaves out a sigh, then murmurs something into the background, presumably to Gabi, telling her to go back to sleep.
“Give me a minute,” he says.
There’s some rustling around on his end before I hear him typing at his computer.
“The bug in the dressing room picked up pieces of a conversation between Chantel and her friend. She told Chantel more letters had arrived. Five of them, from the sounds of it.”
“He’s escalating.” I let out a frustrated breath. “Nothing of significance on the cameras backstage?”
“The only people entering the dressing room are the other performers and staff.”
I pause to think about our next steps. I’ve already vetted the male staff at the club, and Romeo’s been tracking their locations for the past week. There’s no indication any of them have been following Chantel.
Having a camera in the dressing room would provide tangible proof, but that crosses far too many lines.
“Do you think one of the other dancers is just trying to scare her?” Romeo asks. “Maybe they want her to quit.”
It’s an option I’ve considered. Chantel has a coveted position as a solo act, and a jealous rival isn’t out of the realm of possibility. But after doing some research, this feels more like erotomania than anything else. The notes are proof of the stalker’s delusions.
“Whoever it is has convinced themselves that they have a real relationship with her,” I say. “They think she’s sending them secret signals during her performances, and they’re interpreting normal interactions as something significant.”
“So what you’re telling me is this guy’s not playing with a full deck of cards,” Romeo remarks.
“Who do we have dirt on at the club?”
“Besides Viktor?”
“Yes. Preferably one of the dancers.”
“I can get you a list. You thinking blackmail?”
“We need to speed things up. That’s easier to do with eyes on the inside.”
“I’ll send it over now.”
I thank him, and we disconnect the call. I’m already getting a later start than I’d like, but I take a minute to track Chantel’s location.
She’s at her Pilates class, just like she said she’d be. And now that I have something actionable for the stalker, I think about the current situation with her.
I already know pushing her won’t work. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about her over the past few years, it’s that she enjoys it when we spar. Because even if we’re fighting—it’s still an interaction.
Take that away from her though?
It irritates the hell out of her.
That night, I slip into a dimly lit corner booth at Black Velvet and scan the room as Chantel performs.
A few of the regular patrons are here, but their interest extends to any woman in the club who might give them the time of day.
To my eternal annoyance, the Greeks seem to be multiplying. In addition to the two regulars who hang around Chantel’s friend, Ares and his crew also show up.
Ares hasn’t ever had a vested interest in this club or any of the dancers, so I know this is one of his games. Now that he’s seen me with Chantel, he’s trying to figure out how he can meddle in the situation.
He confirms as much when he strolls over, looking far too pleased with himself.
“It’s an interesting mating ritual you Vitales have,” he remarks. “Do you all plan to stalk your wives before you marry them?”
“You’re one to talk.”
“I have the decency to stalk in plain sight,” he muses. “But here you are hiding in the back corner. Strange, considering I heard you announced your engagement publicly just last night. Trouble in paradise already?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a face only a mother could love?”
“That’s not what your sister said.” He smirks.
“Fortunately, she seems to have recovered from that temporary lapse in judgment.”
“Yes, well, it appears you may have the same problem with Miss St. James. She’s flighty, that one.”
My jaw tightens, but giving him a reaction will only encourage him.
“If you’re in the market for a wife, I have a few charming sisters and plenty of eligible cousins,” Ares volunteers. “An alliance might be beneficial, now that your golden goose has signed a deal with us.”
“I’d sign my own death certificate before I ever marry a Greek woman.”
Ares’s eyes flash with amusement. “Surely we aren’t that bad.”
“Death has an ending. That kind of suffering does not.”
“So I suppose we’ll be the rivalry that never dies.” He shrugs. “I’m still buzzing from my last victory, but I’m always up for another competition. In fact, I was thinking just today how nice Chantel would look at the altar with one of my men.”
“Send any of them near her, and I’ll deliver them back to you in pieces.”
“You Vitales are so possessive of your toys.” He huffs out a laugh. “I guess I’ll just say…may the best man win.”
By the time he’s across the room, I’ve already come up with ten different ways to murder him. It would be a temporary satisfaction, because I know the bastard would die with a smile on his face simply for getting a rise out of me.
I stay at the club until I know Chantel’s safely on her way home. Then I follow Bruno to her house and sit in my car while I return some calls.
Unsurprisingly, Marco’s disappearance has been making the rounds through our social circles.
Given his colossal fuck-ups and the company’s already shaken investors, speculation is rife.
His clients have been calling me, asking if they should jump ship.
While I could capitalize on this, I won’t.
I have no desire to destroy everything Marco’s father spent decades building.
I’ve already spoken with him. Tomorrow afternoon, he’ll announce Marco’s departure from the company and begin damage control. He doesn’t know where his son is, but more than anything, he sounded relieved.
Once I’m finished handling that headache, I call the manager at Eden to check in. There’s nothing emergent that needs my attention, but it gives me a reason to ignore Chantel when I enter the house.
She’s in the kitchen drinking a glass of water, and she lingers there while I continue my conversation. I draw it out with unnecessary questions about reports and upcoming events until she walks down the hall and closes her door for the night.
For the rest of the week, we fall into a similar pattern. I’m present every evening, providing her dinner, protection—and solitude.
I don’t engage her in conversation, and I spend my time working from her sofa when I’m not sleeping on it.
By the weekend, she’s restless, and she exerts that energy into extra workouts and deep cleaning her house. Then Sunday arrives, and as I predicted, she returns in a huff after running errands.
“Did you pay my rent for an entire year?”
“Yes.” I don’t bother to glance up at her.
“You need to cancel that check,” she demands.
“No.”
“Cristian, you can’t just go around paying my bills.”
“It’s already done.”
A tense silence settles over the room as she waits for me to look at her, but I don’t. It’s obvious she wants this to be a bigger fight than it is, but she doesn’t know how to keep arguing about it. So in the end, she pads down the hall and slams her door.
I smile for the first time in a week.