Chapter 4Ivan
CHAPTER 4
IVAN
S tanding by the window, I adjust the focus on my binoculars, watching the building across the street. This is the third apartment I own in this building—purchased solely for its vantage point. The thirtieth-floor penthouse is my official residence, but I spend most nights here on the twentieth floor, waiting until Jenny falls asleep. My staff rotates shifts in another apartment on the twenty-ninth floor, ensuring everything is covered while I remain here, keeping watch.
Jenny’s silhouette moves through her exactly opposite mine twentieth-floor apartment, backlit by Atlanta’s twinkling skyline. Her hair is twisted into a messy bun with wisps falling around her face as she shuffles across her hardwood floors in those ridiculous gray pajamas covered in cartoon penguins. Even from here, I can make out the way the soft fabric clings to her curves.
“Ivan?” My best friend and head of security’s voice crackles through my earpiece. “The new surveillance feeds are live,” says Marcus.
“Good.” My breath fogs the binoculars while I track her movement to her small kitchen. “Keep monitoring.”
The wall of screens in my study displays every angle of her apartment in pristine HD quality, but I prefer this—the raw intimacy of watching her through glass and distance. When she reaches for a mug from her cabinet, I can’t resist walking to my own kitchen in an unconscious mirror of her actions. The space between our buildings feels both vast and nonexistent, a strange parallel dance neither of us acknowledges.
“Sweet little bird,” I murmur, watching her blow steam from her tea. “If you only knew how safe I keep you.”
My phone is heavy in my hand while as I watch her through the window. The sight of her padding around her apartment in those soft flannel pajamas, covered in tiny cartoonish penguins, makes something twist in my chest. I keep following her, stopping when she does.
Eventually, she freezes and stares at me. She’s aware now that I’m watching. It gives me a thrill to feel even a faint connection. Before I can stop myself, I compose a text and send it.
Nice PJs, Jenny. Gray penguins look cute on you.
The moment her phone chimes, her shoulders jerk. Her entire body goes rigid, spine straightening like a steel rod has replaced it. She spins around, her movements sharp and jarring, and so different from her usual grace. Through the binoculars, I track her frantic search of her windows—left, right, up, and down—and watch her throat work in a hard swallow. Terror etches itself across her features as she stumbles backward, nearly tripping over her area rug in her haste to get away from the glass.
“Shit.” Regret pierces through me like an icy blade. This wasn’t what I wanted. My fingers move quickly across the screen, desperate to undo the damage.
I’m just admiring you. I will never hurt you.
The words feel hollow and insufficient. How do I tell her that every message, every moment of surveillance, is meant to keep her safe? That the thought of her afraid—especially of me—makes me want to tear out my own heart?
A thud rings through my earpiece as she drops to the floor, vanishing beneath the window frame. One minute bleeds into five while I grip my tablet, willing her to reappear. When she finally rises, her movements remind me of a frightened bird—precisely focused but somehow erratic. She stumbles once, catches herself against the wall, and then bolts toward her bedroom.
“No, no, no,” I mutter as the curtains snap closed with a harsh swoosh.
I swipe to the bedroom feed on my tablet, shaking my head at the sight. Back and forth she moves, ten steps one way, pivot, ten steps back. Her fingers tangle in her chestnut hair, pulling it into wild disarray. The hidden cameras pick up every detail in crisp HD—the thundering pulse visible at her throat, and the shallow gasps that part her lips. Every few seconds, she whips around to stare at the windows, then the door, then back again.
“What are you thinking?” I whisper to the screen. Why did I reach out to her tonight? I’ve been able to suppress the urge for a year. I suppose it was because I’d been in close proximity to her today.
She pauses mid-stride, wrapping her arms around herself. Even through the digital feed, I can see her trembling. No wonder she’s afraid.
My mind drifts back to that night a year ago when I first intervened. The sound of her ex-boyfriend’s fist connecting with her flesh, and her terrified face in the streetlight. The satisfying crunch of my knuckles against Stephen’s jaw, followed by other parts of his body.
The memory of her standing there, shaking but brave, ignites something primal inside me. Since that night, I’ve dedicated myself to keeping her safe—even if she doesn’t know it’s me. The cameras, the security upgrades, and the “chance” job offer—all carefully orchestrated to bring her closer, to protect her.
Through the digital feed, I watch Jenny collapse onto her cream-colored duvet, her phone pressed against her chest like a shield. Her mascara has left dark smudges beneath her eyes, but the rapid rise and fall of her chest has finally slowed to a steadier rhythm. She stretches one trembling hand toward her nightstand, wrapping fingers around her silver laptop.
“Just try to sleep,” I whisper to the empty air, knowing she can’t hear me. “You’re safe now.”
I lower my binoculars and touch my forehead to the cold window while staring across the gap between our buildings—twenty stories up, and two hundred yards apart. Close enough to watch, but too far to fully protect if something happens. The lights of downtown Atlanta twinkle below, but my attention remains fixed on her window.
“Done for tonight, man?” asks Marcus through the intercom.
“No. Double the security detail outside her building. I want four men, not two.” There’s no clear reason for requesting that, but my instincts tell me to, so I do.
“Of course.”
I press my hand against the glass, watching Jenny open “Netflix” on the feed. If she knew the truth, would she understand? Or would it only frighten her more?
Turning away from the window, I move to the liquor cabinet. My hands shake slightly when I reach for the crystal decanter, the stopper making a quiet clink as I remove it. The vodka splashes into my tumbler—one, two, three fingers’ worth. Premium Russian vodka, the kind I assume my father would have approved of, if I’d ever known him.
Once again, my gaze turns to the cameras. I watch her as she watches something on her laptop. It sounds like a comedy, but she never even smiles. She’s upset, and I feel like a heel for causing that with my flirtatious, ill-timed text. All I can do is watch her get through it.
“Why do you do this to yourself?” I mutter in Russian, pressing the cool glass to my forehead. I already know the answer. This nightly vigil is both my penance and my privilege—watching over her and protecting her, even if she’ll never know.
Needing a reminder of what I do for her, and some hope that there’s a connection between us even if it’s all on my side, I call up videos from the surveillance system at “Silver Fox Productions,” dated over the past year. My tablet displays dozens of video clips, a digital archive of Jenny’s mistreatment.
In one, her former supervisor throws a stack of papers at her desk, scattering them across the floor while other employees snicker. Jenny calmly picks up each sheet, her face a mask of composure.
I take a long drink, savoring the burn. The next clip shows the break room. Two women whisper and point at Jenny as she heats her lunch. When she sits alone at a corner table, they walk past and deliberately knock her water bottle to the floor.
“Oops,” says one with exaggerated innocence. “So clumsy.”
Jenny retrieves the bottle without a word, though her hands shake slightly as she wipes up the spill.
I twist the glass until my fingers ache, vodka sloshing against the crystal sides. These office vultures strutted through their cubicle kingdom, drunk on the minor power their mid-level management positions provide. Their daddy’s country club memberships and sorority connections shielded them from consequences. Or so they’d believed.
“Did you see her face?” The whispered taunt drifts from the break room via my tablet. “Like a lost little puppy.”
I’ve memorized each face, each sneer, and each calculated “accident.” They had no idea that every incident was being cataloged, and every perpetrator identified. No idea that someone like me—someone who understands real power—was watching their pathetic display of dominance.
“Such amateurs,” I murmur, taking another sip. “You dug your graves one shovel at a time.”
Another video plays—the CEO’s assistant spreading rumors about Jenny sleeping her way into promotions. The whispers follow her through hallways, stick to her like poison. Yet she holds her head high, performs her duties with professionalism, and honestly seems unaware of the content of the rumors.
I scroll through more footage—stolen credit for her work, sabotaged presentations, and deliberately incorrect information that set her up to fail. The systematic campaign to break her spirit fills me with cold rage.
That’s why I bought the company. Not just to be closer to her, but to destroy those who hurt her. One by one, they’ve learned the cost of their actions. The severance packages are merely a courtesy. Their real punishments will come later when they discover their reputations and careers in ruins.
Through the security feeds, I watch Jenny settle onto her bed as she draws up her knees. Her fingers trail over the well-worn spine of what appears to be “Pride and Prejudice.” I recognize the battered blue cover from my research into her habits.
“Another night with Mr. Darcy?” I murmur, allowing myself this moment of weakness while I lean closer to the monitor. The way her lips curve into a small, private smile while she reads makes my heart constrict. Such a simple pleasure yet watching her find peace in those pages fills me with an unfamiliar warmth. She seems much more relaxed now.
Soon, those same lips will shape my name. Soon, those eyes will look at me with recognition, understanding dawning as the pieces click into place—the mysterious buyer of her company is the shadow from her past, and the man who’s orchestrated everything to keep her safe.
“Will you hate me when you know?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Or will you understand why I had to do it all?”
I brush my fingers against the screen, tracing the outline of her peaceful form. The thought of revealing myself splits me in two—part of me burns to finally step into the light, while another part dreads the moment she discovers just how deeply I’ve embedded myself in her life.
I drain my glass and pour another. The vodka dulls the urge to cross the street, to confess my surveillance and protection. She’s not ready for those truths. Not yet.
I finally feel ready for sleep but perform my usual routine—staring out at the street below once more before leaving this apartment to go up to my penthouse and sleep alone in the bed that feels far too huge and empty without Jenny beside me in it.
Usually, I see nothing. Tonight, movement catches my attention. A hooded figure exits Jenny’s building, their steps quick and purposeful against the night-darkened sidewalk. The security cameras pivot to track them, but the angle and shadows obscure any clear view of their face.
I tighten my fingers tighten around my glass as the figure pulls their hood closer, ducking their head against the chill November air. Their movements sets off warning signals—the controlled precision, and the way they check over their shoulder before rounding the corner—leave me unnerved.
“Marcus, do we have eyes on the street cameras?” I press the comm link in my ear.
“Negative, Ivan. The angle’s wrong, and the lighting is poor. Could be a resident.”
I grunt in acknowledgment, but unease lingers. The figure’s stride speaks of someone who knows they’re being watched, or someone practiced at avoiding detection. Not the casual gait of a neighbor heading home.
“Clove, pull up Jenny’s apartment feed,” I say to my AI system, setting down my drink.
The wall of screens flickers, showing multiple angles of her space. Relief floods through me at the sight of her curled on her bed, chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep. One hand is tucked beneath her cheek.
“Check the building’s entry logs, Marcus. I want to know who just left.”
“On it.” His fingers audibly tap across his keyboard. “Nothing unusual showing up. No unauthorized entries or exits in the past hour.”
I pace the length of my office, unable to shake the nagging sense that something’s wrong. The mysterious figure replays in my mind. “I saw someone leave the building. Have someone check the security cameras for any blind spots or tampering.”
“Will do, Ivan. Should I alert Ms. Graham’s detail?”
“ Da .” I return to the window, scanning the now-empty street. “Let her sleep though. Just make sure everyone stays alert.”
I drain my glass, the premium vodka burning a path down my throat. On screen, Jenny shifts in her sleep, drawing her blanket closer. The sight of her safe in her bed eases some of the tension in my shoulders, but I can’t dismiss the cold certainty that someone was watching her tonight.
Marcus reports back to me moments later. “Nothing, Ivan. No matches to Williams or any known associates in the past twenty-four hours. I’ve cross-referenced against employee records, visitor logs, and delivery personnel. No suspicious activity detected.”
“Keep monitoring.” Through the surveillance feeds, I keep watch over Jenny curled up on her bed.
“Ivan?” Marcus clears his throat. “About the figure we spotted...”
“A resident, surely.” The words taste bitter because I don’t know for sure. “Or a visitor, perhaps. Jenny’s safe. That’s what matters.”
I study the feeds. She shifts position, drawing her knees up as she settles deeper into her pillows. Those ridiculous penguin pajamas make her look young and vulnerable. The urge to cross the street and check on her personally burns through me.
“Soon, little bird,” I murmur in Russian. “Soon, you’ll understand everything I do is to keep you safe.”