Chapter 28 Botticelli’s ‘Birth of a Stalker’
KADE
The city is quiet, or at least as quiet as New York ever gets.
It’s past two in the morning, and most of the streets are empty, save for the occasional cab or some poor bastard walking home after last call.
I weave through the roads, the hum of my bike keeping me company.
Streetlights flash by, turning the pavement into streaks of gold and shadow.
My mind should be on the road, but it’s not.
It’s on whoever sent that message. Whoever had the balls—and the skill—to breach my security like it was nothing. It’s not possible. It shouldn’t be possible. But I saw it with my own eyes, and now here I am, cutting through the streets of Manhattan like a goddamn errand boy answering a summons.
They wanted me to come to Monarch. The store where Amanda works. That’s not something I can just ignore.
So let’s see what they want.
I pull up to the store and slow my bike to a crawl. I don’t bother with the front entrance. I take a slow lap around the block, finding the side street that runs along the back of the building. It’s quiet, dimly lit, a place most people would avoid at this hour.
I spot the back entrance, a keycard access panel beside a steel door. I cut the engine, swing off the bike, and pull off my gloves as I approach. If they invited me, maybe the door will open on its own. Maybe they’ll roll out a fucking welcome mat.
Nothing happens.
Didn’t think so.
I slip my wallet from my pocket and pull out a thin, unassuming credit card. Not the kind you swipe at a register but the kind that’s been custom-modified to do exactly what I need it to. I slide it along the edge of the panel and pop it open, exposing the wires inside.
A few twists. A little rewiring. A quiet click.
The door unlocks.
I push it open.
And come face-to-face with a very big man.
I’m six-two myself, but this guy has at least three inches on me. Built like a goddamn truck. Arms folded across his chest, expression unreadable. I let the door close behind me, cocking my head as I size him up.
“Well,” I mutter. “At least I’m not getting stood up.”
The big guy doesn’t move when I step inside. Just watches me. I take off my helmet, running a hand through my hair before tucking it under my arm. His eyes flick to my face, sharp and assessing, like he’s already got me figured out.
“Callahan Knight,” he finally says.
I raise a brow. Callahan Knight. The name clicks into place. Izzy’s husband. Head of Monarch security. Ex-military. Hacker with a reputation almost as clean as mine. Almost.
“I know you’ve been trying to get into our system,” he says.
I smirk. “Trying is the wrong word. I’m in it.”
Cal doesn’t react, just tilts his head like he’s debating whether to throw me through a wall. He leans against the doorframe, giving me the once-over every security professional perfects, sizing up threat level and intent.
“I know you’re watching Amanda,” he says. “Why?”
My body stays relaxed, but my mind sharpens. That’s the real question, isn’t it?
“Who is she to you?”
I glance at him, weighing my words. I don’t owe this guy an answer. But something about him…
He’s like me, I can tell.
“I’m not sure I can really tell you that,” I admit, my voice even. “But if you’re wondering whether I’m a threat to her, I’m not.”
Cal holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods like he already knew that. “Amanda is my wife’s best friend. Which means she falls under my protection.”
And just like that, I like this guy.
Because I get it.
I respect it.
I nod once, slowly. “Good.” Then, after a beat, I exhale. “I’m someone from her past. And I intend to win her back. In the meantime, I want to make sure she’s safe.”
Cal watches me for another long second, then finally pushes off the wall. “Cool,” he says easily. “I’m good with that. You do what you need to do.”
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a USB drive, and tosses it to me. I catch it in one hand, raising a brow.
“This’ll give you access to the server. Since clearly I can’t stop you anyway.”
I chuckle, flipping the USB between my fingers. “Izzy is incredible.” I shake my head. “I’m glad Amanda still has her in her life.”
At that, Cal’s expression softens just a little. “Yeah. I don’t deserve her.”
I huff a quiet laugh.
“If I could offer some advice,” he continues, meeting my eyes, “just come clean to her. I kept something from Izzy, and it could have destroyed us before it all worked out.”
I exhale, shaking my head. “I don’t know. Amanda isn’t quite as forgiving as Izzy.”
Cal smirks. “That’s actually pretty true.”
We share a laugh, the kind that only men like us can.
The night air is crisp as I step out of Monarch, the weight of the USB still warm in my palm. Cal Knight. Didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect to like the guy, either, but here we are.
I slip the USB into my pocket and swing my leg over the bike, revving the engine.
I could go home. Could call it a night, sit in the dark, and stare at my screens like usual.
But I don’t want to. I don’t want to spend the rest of the night alone.
Instead, I find myself making a turn and heading straight for Amanda’s apartment.
It’s late, but that’s perfect. She’ll be asleep, and I can do what I need to do without her waking up.
The streets blur past, and before I know it, I’m parking down the block from her place. I cut the engine and make my way up, letting myself in the way I always do—quiet, careful, undetected.
Her apartment is dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights spilling through the windows. The familiar scent of her fills the space and makes my chest ache like it always does.
I step farther inside, moving on instinct, my boots silent against the floor. Amanda’s bedroom door is ajar. I push it open just enough to see her. She’s curled up under the blankets, her hair a mess over the pillow, one arm stretched out like she’s reaching for something in her sleep.
For someone.
For me.
I exhale slowly, watching her chest rise and fall in deep, steady breaths. I could stand here and watch her for hours, but I force myself to move.
I walk through her apartment, pulling open cabinets, checking the fridge. She doesn’t have much—typical. Amanda’s always been terrible at grocery shopping.
But she has enough.
I set to work, prepping things for her in the morning.
Pull out the coffee beans, grind them down just right.
Fill the machine, set it to start brewing at the exact time she usually wakes up.
Find a box of granola bars shoved into the back of a cabinet, the kind she always used to grab when she was running late.
I set one on the counter next to the clean mug I pull from her shelf.
It’s small. But she’ll notice.
She always notices.
Once that’s done, I move on to what I really came for.
Her purse is on the kitchen table, half zipped, like she just tossed it there and forgot about it. I slide a hand into her purse. I know exactly what I’m looking for. My fingers close around it, cool and small against my palm.
The device.
I pocket it.
Then, with barely a sound, I move toward her bedroom.
I don’t get into the bed with her.
I don’t touch her.
Instead, I sink into the ridiculous fuzzy seashell-shaped chair in the corner of the room.
The thing is as impractical as it looks and stiff in all the wrong places.
But I settle in as much as possible, stretching my legs out, attempting to look menacing while perched in what appears to be a giant pink clamshell.
Great. Now I’m Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, if Venus was a trained killer breaking into his wife’s apartment.
And then I wait.
I watch her sleep.
Her lips part slightly with each exhale, her lashes fluttering when she shifts. For a moment, I wonder what she’s dreaming about.
I hope it’s me.