Chapter 2
SIMONE
I'm going to fire him.
The thought crystallizes as I stride out of Dominion's building, the two operatives falling into step behind me. They're silent, efficient, military precision in every movement. Everything about this op screams tactical control, and I hate every second of it.
Luc Pascal thinks he can talk to me like I'm some incompetent child who needs to be managed. Like I didn't take my father's company and turn it into an industry powerhouse. Like I don't negotiate with sharks in boardrooms and come out on top every single time.
I'm the client. I'm paying the bill. We are on equal footing, and the first thing I'm going to do when we get to that guest house is make him understand that fact.
The operatives guide me toward a black SUV parked at the curb. One of them opens the back door.
"Ms. LaCroix."
I slide into the backseat, check my watch. The meeting with Luc took longer than expected, which means I'm behind schedule for the rest of my day. I pull out my phone, start typing emails to my executive team.
"Where to first?" The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror.
"My office. I have business to handle before we go anywhere else." I don't look up from my phone. "LaCroix Petroleum headquarters, Central Business District."
The SUV pulls into traffic. I spend the drive reviewing quarterly projections, responding to my CFO's questions about the offshore expansion, approving budget allocations for the new drilling platform. Normal work—what keeps a multi-billion dollar operation running smoothly.
Work that has nothing to do with stalkers or photographs or moving into protective custody.
My phone buzzes—the secure server credentials Luc texted me earlier. Setup instructions follow: enable continuous sync, grant all permissions, no exceptions. Like I'm some assistant taking dictation instead of a CEO with a company to run.
I follow the instructions with sharp, angry taps. Calendar sync, contact integration, email forwarding with real-time monitoring. A notification flashes confirming the system is active. Any incoming messages flagged for threat language will alert Luc immediately.
The system wants access to everything. I grant permissions one after another, watching my digital life feed into Luc Pascal's security apparatus. Let him see how packed my schedule is. Let him try to tell me which meetings I can and can't attend.
The Central Business District appears through the window. High-rises and business towers, the financial heart of New Orleans. My building is one of the newer ones, all glass and steel, LaCroix Petroleum in tasteful letters across the entrance.
Home territory. Where I'm in charge.
The SUV pulls into the executive parking garage. The driver turns in his seat to face me.
"We'll need to accompany you inside, Ms. LaCroix."
"That's not necessary." The words come out automatically, defensive corporate armor snapping into place. "This is my building. My security. I don't need an escort to my own office."
"Mr. Pascal's orders. We stay with you at all times."
"Mr. Pascal doesn't give me orders." I grab my bag, step out of the SUV. "Wait in the car. I'll be done soon."
They don’t wait in the car. Of course they don't. Luc Pascal doesn't strike me as the kind of man whose operatives ignore instructions. I make it exactly three steps before they’re beside me. Not touching, not restraining, just there.
"With respect, that's not how this works." His tone is firm. "We accompany you inside, maintain visual contact at all times, and ensure your safety while you handle your business. Mr. Pascal's protocols. Non-negotiable."
My face burns. "This is my company. My building. I don't need two bodyguards following me around like I'm some helpless—"
"Ma'am." He doesn't raise his voice. "You can walk inside with us, or we can call Mr. Pascal and explain why we're still in the parking garage. Your choice."
The threat is clear enough. Luc will not be happy if his operatives report that I'm already fighting protocols.
Fine. Let them follow me around like overgrown shadows. I'll deal with Luc later.
The elevator ride to the executive floor is tense. One operative stands in front, one behind, both silent and alert. When the doors open, they step out first, scanning the hallway before letting me exit.
My assistant looks up from her desk, eyes widening at the sight of two large men in tactical gear flanking her CEO.
"Ms. LaCroix, I didn't realize you had a meeting scheduled—"
"I don't." I keep walking toward my office. "Hold my calls."
The operative follows me inside, takes up position by the door while I move to my desk. The other one stays in the hallway, presumably making sure no one comes in without clearance.
This is insane. I can't work like this. Can't run a company with armed guards monitoring my every move.
I pull up my email, start working through the urgent items.
A new email notification pops up. Subject line: Delivery Confirmation.
My stomach drops.
I click it before thinking better of it. It's another photograph—one from a more recent scene than the others, rope suspension, my body arched in a position that felt like flying at the time. Now it just looks vulnerable and exposed.
The text overlay is new.
Tonight you sleep alone. Tomorrow you won't.
That isn't voyeurism anymore. That's a countdown.
Ice slides down my spine. The office suddenly feels too exposed, too public. I glance at the door, but the operative's attention is focused on the hallway, professional and detached.
Something crashes in the hallway outside—my assistant's coffee mug hitting the floor, judging by the sound. I flinch hard enough that my chair rolls back from the desk.
He moves instantly, weapon appearing in his hand as he checks the hallway. "Clear. Just an accident."
But my hands are shaking as I close the email and delete it. Like that will make the threat disappear.
It won't. I know it won't. Dominion doesn't have cameras in the private rooms—privacy is paramount for members.
Which means someone planted hidden cameras.
A flicker of memory surfaced—someone in the hallway weeks ago.
A man in work clothes carrying a tool case while the club was open.
I'd barely noticed him at the time. They've been watching me for weeks, documenting everything without my knowledge.
They know where I live, where I work, where I go to the gym. And now they're escalating.
Tonight you sleep alone. Tomorrow you won't.
The reality of it hits me like a physical blow. This isn't corporate espionage. This isn't a business rival trying to leverage my private life. This is someone who wants to hurt me. Who understands the psychology of power exchange well enough to weaponize it.
Someone who's been planning this for some time.
I force myself to breathe. To finish the urgent emails. To approve the documents that can't wait. But every sound makes me jump. Every shadow in my peripheral vision makes my pulse spike.
When I'm done—as done as I can be while my world is narrowing to photographs and threats and the knowledge that someone is coming for me—I stand and grab my bag.
"I need to go home and pack. My penthouse. Then the Pascal mansion."
The operative nods. "Yes, ma'am. He briefed us on the schedule."
Of course he did. Luc plans everything down to the minute.
The drive to my building takes longer than it should in late afternoon traffic.
I crack the window, needing air. The city slides past—tourists and locals mixing in that particular New Orleans rhythm.
Jazz drifts in from somewhere, a trumpet cutting through the traffic noise.
The smell of jasmine and river water and something indefinable that's pure Louisiana.
This should feel like home. Except right now it feels like a prison closing in.
When we pull into my building's parking garage, everything looks the same as it always does. Expensive, secure, the kind of place where millionaires and old money families live in carefully maintained privacy.
Except it's not secure. Not anymore. Someone got past the doorman, past the security cameras, left a photograph at my door.
The driver turns to face me. "We'll need to clear your penthouse before you enter, Ms. LaCroix. Standard protocol."
"That's completely unnecessary." The words come out sharper than intended. "The building has excellent security. No one's been inside."
"Someone delivered a photograph here recently." His tone doesn't waver. "We clear the penthouse."
I want to argue, want to tell him I don't need two military operatives treating my home like a hostile zone. But that email is still burning in my mind.
Tonight you sleep alone. Tomorrow you won't.
"Fine." I grab my purse. "But make it quick."
The elevator ride up is tense. One operative stays in the lobby, watching the entrance. The other rides up with me, silent and alert. When the doors open on the penthouse level, he steps out first, then gestures for me to follow.
We stop at my door. He pulls out some kind of device, scans the lock, the frame, checking for what I don't even know.
The door opens. He ushers me inside, locks the door behind us. "Stay right here by the entrance." Then he moves deeper into the penthouse, methodically clearing each room.
I stand just inside my own door, waiting for permission to move through my own home. The humiliation burns.
Luc Pascal is going to hear about this. Every second of it. The presumptuous commands, the invasive security protocols, the complete disregard for my autonomy. I don't care how good he is at his job. This is unacceptable.
He reappears. "Clear. You can pack now, Ms. LaCroix. We leave soon."
"I need at least an hour."
"We leave soon." He doesn't budge. "He was very specific about arrival time."
Luc's preferences override my entire schedule.