Chapter 3 If She Falls, I’m the Ground
IF SHE FALLS, I’M THE GROUND
CAL
Monarch is bigger than I expected.
I knew it was high-end, knew the clientele would be the kind that doesn't look at price tags before handing over a black card, but still—this place is a fortress wrapped in designer packaging.
Glass cases filled with jewelry worth more than my ride, handbags displayed like museum pieces, clothing racks curated like a gallery exhibit.
Too much money, too many moving parts, and not nearly enough security.
Which is why I'm here.
I arrive early, dressed in black tactical pants and a fitted button-down, professional but functional.
I take my time walking the floor before the store opens, watching employees set up displays, tracking the cameras, mapping out entry and exit points in my head.
The steady airflow from the vents moves through the space, mingling with the quiet click of hangers and the soft padding of feet on polished floors.
People notice me. A few nod in acknowledgment; others glance, then keep moving.
I don't care. I'm not here to make friends.
I check in with the security team first, go over their current protocols, assess the weak spots.
Some of them have been here for years, others only a few months.
Most of them are used to handling the standard stuff—shoplifters, a drunk VIP here and there, the occasional handbag disappearing during a private shopping appointment.
What they aren't prepared for is organized retail crime, professional-level theft, or someone who knows exactly how to manipulate the blind spots in their system.
And from what I saw in the initial reports, that's exactly what's happening.
I'm scanning through a list of incidents when a voice pulls my attention.
"Callahan," Tom Reyes, my corporate contact from last night, claps a hand on my shoulder. "Come meet your store manager."
I already know who she is.
I knew before I stepped into this store, before my name was even on payroll.
Still, when I turn, when I finally see her up close in the daylight, it does something to me.
She’s different this morning. More composed.
A fitted blazer skims her curves—flattering, not flaunting.
Sleek heels echo across the marble with each step, her hair styled in loose waves that feel intentional, not accidental.
A tablet rests under one arm while her free hand scrolls through schedules with practiced ease.
Confidence clings to her now, a far cry from the woman I saw last night—small and silent beneath her boyfriend’s scrutiny.
Here, in her world, she doesn’t shrink. She owns the room.
I wonder if she even recognizes me.
She doesn't react—not outright. But when she looks up and our eyes meet, I have my answer. A pause before she resets, that smooth professionalism sliding into place.
"Callahan, this is Isabella Russo, our store manager," Reyes says.
She offers a polite, businesslike smile. "Nice to meet you."
I shake her hand. It's warm. Steady.
"You too."
Her lips press into a tight line that isn't quite a smile but isn't dismissive either. Professional. Distant. She nods toward Reyes. "Tom mentioned you'd be coming in today. Have you had a chance to review the security system yet?"
I shake my head. "Not yet. Wanted to get a look at the store first."
She nods, tucking the tablet under her arm.
"Good. I know corporate already gave you the rundown, but I'll be blunt—we're understaffed in loss prevention.
We're dealing with high-end clients, high-risk merchandise, and corporate expectations that don't always align with reality. I need to know if I can rely on you."
I don't blink. "You can."
She studies me.
Reyes clears his throat, filling the silence. "Callahan's got extensive experience. Military background, worked high-profile private security after that. He'll get the security issues locked down."
She flicks her gaze back to me. "Army?"
I nod. "Ten years."
She nods, accepting the answer without prying. But then, after a brief pause, she tilts her head slightly. "I heard you also have a background in cybersecurity."
I watch her, debating how much to say. "That's right."
"How deep does that go?" she asks, crossing her arms, curiosity slipping into her tone.
"We're dealing with more than just grab-and-run theft.
High-end fraud, internal shrink, even digital scams—clients trying to do chargebacks on merchandise they actually walked out with.
I need to know if you're the kind of security that can handle just physical threats, or if you can see the ones happening behind the scenes, too. "
She's smart. Smarter than Reyes gives her credit for.
"I see all threats," I say simply.
Her lips twitch, like she doesn't know if she believes me. "All threats?"
I nod. "If there's a way in, I can find it. If there's a blind spot, I'll patch it. And if someone thinks they can outsmart the system, they won't get far."
She studies me, like she's trying to decide if I'm just saying what she wants to hear.
"Every store I've worked for," I add, "had their numbers flipped in the first three months. You've got thieves walking through your front doors who don't even realize I already know who they are."
Her fingers tap lightly against her tablet. "No one's ever that good."
My lips twitch with quiet amusement. "No thief I've ever tracked has gotten away. If they were smart enough to, I wouldn't have known they were stealing at all."
She huffs a short breath, a mix of amusement or maybe grudging respect, then nods. "We'll see."
It's not a challenge exactly, but it's close.
I like that.
"Your schedule will mirror mine for the first few weeks," she continues. "That means early mornings, late nights, weekends. You good with that?"
"I'm used to worse."
"Good," she says again, and there's a directness about the way she says it, the efficiency of it, that I like. She doesn't waste words. Doesn't ask questions she doesn't need the answer to.
We go over the rest of the logistics. The existing security protocols, how loss prevention handles incidents, where the biggest issues have been. She's direct, focused, and I can already tell she's used to managing people who don't listen to her.
I do.
I answer her questions, keep my responses short, watch the way she absorbs each detail, already running through solutions in her head.
She doesn't mention last night.
Doesn't acknowledge the way our eyes met across the restaurant, or the way she hesitated before stepping into that elevator.
Maybe she doesn't remember.
But then, right before Reyes wraps up our conversation, she glances at me again.
Just a second too long.
Just enough for me to see it—the shift in her breath.
She does remember.
She's just pretending she doesn't.
I don't know if I like that or not.
The day moves fast, a blur of meetings, system checks, and introductions that I barely register beyond what I need to know.
I shake hands, nod at people I probably won't remember by the end of the shift, listen to a rundown of security policies that are incomplete at best and outright useless at worst. I spend most of the morning doing what I do best—watching.
I watch the staff, learning their patterns, their strengths, their weaknesses. There are seasoned employees who know the clientele, their voices smooth and persuasive as they close a sale. There are newer hires, eager but a little overwhelmed. And then there's her.
Isabella is everywhere.
I catch glimpses of her throughout the day, moving from department to department, switching between firm and charming depending on what the situation calls for.
One minute, she's talking a new hire through a luxury sale, making sure they upsell without pushing too hard.
The next, she's handling an upset vendor over the phone, smoothing out some last-minute delay.
She moves like she's the one keeping this place from collapsing. And maybe she is.
What surprises me most isn't her efficiency—I expected that.
It's the way people respect her. The way employees lower their voices when she's talking, the way they listen.
I've worked in plenty of places where managers act like dictators or get completely walked over.
Isabella doesn't do either. She's got a grip on every element of this place, and she knows it.
What I don't know is if anyone else notices just how much she does.
If anyone actually sees her.
If that douchebag boyfriend of hers does.
The thought irritates me more than it should, but I push it aside, focus on the job.
I sit in the surveillance room, watching the monitors cycle through different angles of the store, my fingers drumming idly against the desk. Most of the day has been uneventful. A few minor shoplifting attempts, no organized efforts, no professional techniques.
My focus returns to her.
She's in the personal shopping suite, standing near one of the wingback armchairs that look like they belong in a cigar lounge more than a department store. Across from her, a man in his forties is perched comfortably, a tailored navy suit doing nothing to hide his sleaze. The way he leans back, swirling his drink lazily. He’s the human embodiment of trust fund divorce settlement and a Rolex he didn’t earn.
I know everything about him before he even opens hs mouth.
A repeat customer. Someone used to getting what he wants.
I switch to the camera with better audio, adjusting the volume just enough to pick up the conversation.
"I actually asked for the store manager," he continues, voice slow and easy, like he has all the time in the world. "That's you, right?"
Isabella doesn't hesitate, doesn't frown or shift like she's thrown off. She just nods, keeping her expression neutral. "Yes, but my associate, Daniel, is our expert on this collection. He works directly with the designers and—"
"I'd prefer to work with you," the man cuts in, a smirk twisting his features like this is some private joke between them. "If you don't mind."
She does, I can tell.
Not that she shows it outright, but I catch the way her fingers tighten just slightly against the tablet in her hands before she exhales a quiet, controlled breath.
"I'd be happy to assist," she says evenly, shooting Daniel a brief glance before turning her full attention back to the client. "What kind of fit are you looking for?"
I know what she's doing. Redirecting. Trying to get the conversation back on track. But I also know exactly the sort of guy this is, and I know he's enjoying himself.
Daniel, the associate she was trying to pass him off to, stands a few feet away, clearly uncertain. He glances at Isabella once, like he's waiting for her to signal him to step in, but she doesn't.
Because she knows she can't.
Not without making it worse.
The client hums, finally looking at the suits like he actually gives a damn about them. "A cut that's classic, but not boring. I have an event coming up, and I need to look good. Not that I ever don't."
Isabella smiles just enough to be polite. "Of course."
I grind my teeth.
He's toying with her.
She knows it. I know it.
And neither of us can do a damn thing about it.
"This is a beautiful collection," Isabella says smoothly, gesturing to the designer suits draped over the armrest. "We just got the new season in last week. You'll be one of the first to experience it."
"Hmm," the man hums, his attention now turning fully to her. Too much attention.
Isabella doesn't fidget, doesn't retreat. She holds her position, shoulders squared, expression neutral. She's been here before.
"I have to say," the man continues, his voice casual, like they're old friends sharing an inside joke, "the customer service in this store is exceptional."
"I'm glad to hear that," she replies, still professional, but she’s got a tell. She adjusts the sleeves of her blazer, looking down.
"I mean it," the man insists, setting down his drink on the marble side table. "I always feel... taken care of here."
There it is. The shift.
I see it in the way his posture shifts—the subtle lean forward, the way his eyes skim her face and briefly dip before meeting hers again. He’s gauging her reaction, testing what she’ll allow.
She doesn't give him an inch.
"Customer satisfaction is a top priority for us," she says, keeping her voice even.
"That's good to hear. I always appreciate feeling satisfied."
It's subtle. Just a little too familiar, a little too comfortable.
And it's enough to make my grip tighten against the armrest of my chair.
Isabella shifts slightly, reaching for a nearby tablet, effectively putting a barrier between them. "Would you like me to have these tailored for you? I believe we have your measurements on file.”
The man watches her for a beat longer than necessary. “Such excellent customer service, as always. It’s why I ask for you specifically.”
He stands, reaching into his pocket for a black card, handing it over with the same lazy, confident ease as every man who's ever assumed he's untouchable.
She takes it, nodding once. "I'll have the transaction processed right away."
He holds onto it a second longer than he should before finally letting go.
I don't like it.
Not just him, but the entire unspoken exchange.
I don't like the way Isabella had to sidestep instead of shut him down. I don't like the way she had to be careful when he had the freedom to do whatever the hell he wanted.
And I really don't like the way I know this isn't the first time she's had to deal with it.
The transaction wraps up quickly after that. She hands him the receipt, thanks him for his business, and waits for him to leave before exhaling a slow, measured breath. Not frustrated. Not rattled. Just tired.
I flip through the other cameras, tracking the man's exit. He walks out like he owns the place, adjusts his cuffs, slides into the back of a black car waiting at the curb.
I make a note of his license plate.
Just in case.
I lean back, flexing my fingers, trying to shake the tension from my hands. This isn't my business.
But I don't like that it's hers. And I like even less that I know she'll probably be dealing with men like him tomorrow.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
I shut off the feed, push back from the desk, and head to check on her.