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.
His response is instant.
You okay? You seem distracted lately.
I almost laugh. Cole Asher, billionaire tech mogul, asking if his head of security is okay.
A year ago, he was the one spiraling, obsessed with a woman he thought he’d lost. Now he’s settled, happy, playing domestic bliss with Sloane.
He’d recognize what I’m doing if he knew.
He’d probably understand it better than anyone.
Fine, I type. Just finishing up some recon.
The lie sits heavy in my chest. But admitting this out loud would make it real in a way I’m not ready for.
Real means consequences. Real means doing something about it. Real means risking the rejection that would gut me.
I pocket my phone and check the time again. 11:23. Her light is still on. The temperature has dropped at least ten degrees
since I got here, and I can’t feel my fingers anymore. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets and stay planted.
Tonight at Bryant Park, she was different. Slower. Intentional. That candy cane performance wasn’t accidental. She unwrapped
it like she had all the time in the world, like she knew exactly where I was standing, like she wanted me to watch her mouth
work that peppermint into something obscene.
My teeth grind together at the memory. My cock twitches, straining against my zipper like it has any say in this situation.
I can see her perfectly. Black hair cut in blunt bangs that frame her face, the rest falling past her shoulders in waves that
catch the light. Those dark eyes, always lined blacker, like she’s daring you to look closer. Lips painted deep red tonight
to match the season. She’s got this edge to her, halfway between goth and glam that shouldn’t work for me but does. The way
she dresses in all black like she’s perpetually attending a funeral she finds vaguely amusing. That tiny stud in her nose
that catches the light when she laughs.
Gorgeous doesn’t cover it. She’s a mystery wrapped in makeup and combat boots, and I’ve spent a year trying to solve her.
If she knows I’m following her, why hasn’t she confronted me? Why hasn’t she called the cops, or told Sloane, or done any
of the things a normal person would do when they realize they have a shadow?
Because she’s not normal. And neither am I.
We’re both fucked up in ways that maybe fit together. Or maybe I’m telling myself that because the alternative is admitting
I’ve become the thing I used to hunt.
Before Cole, I worked private security for high-profile clients. Politicians, executives, people who made enemies without
trying. Part of the job was identifying threats. Stalkers, obsessives, the ones who convinced themselves their attention was
wanted. I’d seen the letters they wrote, the rationalizations they made, the way they confused surveillance with love.
I know what I look like from the outside.
The leather notebook in my inside pocket presses against my ribs. Pages filled with observations that read like confessions.
Her coffee order. The knot in the silver lace of her left boot. The way she hums while she works, melodies I can never quite
place. I’ve written it all down, recorded her life in neat handwriting that would horrify a therapist.
A couple walks past, arm in arm, laughing at something on one of their phones. They don’t notice me. Most people don’t. It’s
a skill, making yourself invisible. I learned it in the Marines, perfected it in the years since. Blend with the shadows,
move like you belong, never make eye contact unless you want to be remembered.
Tonight I’m not trying to be invisible. I’m standing under a streetlight, for fuck’s sake. But Hailey’s curtain stays closed
and I stay rooted to the spot like the pathetic bastard I’ve become.
At 12:30, her light shines. She’s moved to the back of the apartment, probably the bedroom area. Winding down, or pretending
to. The wind picks up, cutting through my coat like it’s made of paper. My ears burn. I don’t move.
I should go home. Get some sleep before the briefing tomorrow. But I stay another hour, watching her window, watching the
shadows move behind her curtains.
At 1:47, her light goes out.
Only then do I walk back to where I parked, hands shoved in my pockets, breath clouding in the frozen air. Tomorrow she’ll go to work early, coffee in hand, tired but pretending otherwise. I’ll be there too, watching from a distance. Making sure she’s safe.
Making sure she’s mine.
A year ago, that thought would have disturbed me. Now it feels like the truth.
The drive back to Manhattan is quiet this time of night, me and the occasional cab racing down empty streets. I find a spot
near my building and kill the engine but don’t get out. Sit there in the dark, hands on the wheel.
Behind my closed eyes, I see her. That black hair. That red mouth. The way she moves through crowds like water, aware of everything,
afraid of nothing.
Tomorrow I’ll watch for any shift in her pattern. If she acts different around me, if anything changes. Every twitch, every
glance—I overanalyze all of it.
And if she keeps playing along? If she keeps taking the long way home and leaving gaps in her curtains?
Then maybe this isn’t just my obsession.
Maybe it’s ours.
Maybe it’s time to do something about this . . . maybe tomorrow, I decide. Tomorrow I stop watching from the shadows. I’ll
find a reason to talk to her. A real conversation, not just security check-ins and small talk about jewelry designs. A conversation
that lets me see if this tension between us is real or a fever dream I’ve been nursing for twelve months.
And if she shuts me down? If she looks at me like I’m exactly what I am—an obsessive stalker.
Then I’ll know. And I’ll figure out how to live with that.
But if she doesn’t. If those dark eyes spark the way I think they will . . .