Chapter 4 He is watching me

After the man stepped into the elevator and vanished, Isabella stayed frozen for several moments. The scent he left behind-citrus and smoke-still clung to the air like an invisible fingerprint.

She forced herself to focus. To breathe.

Damian hadn't called her in. No one on the floor looked alarmed. Life at Jaxon Corp was

moving like a well-oiled machine. Maybe that was what scared her the most-how easily a threat could slip in and out of such a place without anyone blinking.

She turned back to her screen, heart pounding against her ribs. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard as she reviewed the updated call logs, the investor summaries Damian had forwarded, the legal brief she was supposed to revise by noon. It all felt pointless now. Fragile.

But she worked anyway.

By 11:50, she needed air.

She slipped out of the executive floor and rode the elevator down to the twelfth, where the Jaxon Café buzzed quietly. She ordered a coffee she wouldn't finish and a sandwich she wouldn't touch. Her eyes scanned every face in the room, every corner, every exit.

She couldn't tell if she was paranoid or if she'd simply spent too many years running to trust stillness.

In the restroom, she splashed cold water on her face and stared at her reflection. Her eyes were too wide. Her lips too pale. This wasn't the version of herself she wanted to be. Not here. Not now.

She pressed her fingers to her temples and whispered, "You're okay. You're okay. Just breathe."

But it was a lie.

She wasn't okay.

She wasn't even close.

⸻

When Isabella returned to the executive floor, her entire body stiffened.

Something had changed.

Her desk looked the same... almost.

Until she saw it.

A folded piece of paper.

Resting in the exact center of her keyboard-clean, deliberate, threatening in its simplicity.

Her hands went cold.

She hadn't left anything there.

No one should've been near her desk.

And yet...

With slow, careful fingers, she picked it up. Unfolded it.

The handwriting was sharp and slanted.

"Martinez."

Her real last name.

The one she hadn't used since fleeing Russia. The one tied to the man whose enemies wanted her gone. The one that hadn't crossed her lips in nearly a year.

And underneath it:

"Do you really think he can protect you?"

She nearly dropped it.

Someone was toying with her.

They weren't trying to hurt her.

Not yet.

They were letting her know they could.

She looked up, her gaze sweeping the floor. Every coworker seemed glued to their screens. No one looked up. No one smiled. No one acknowledged her.

It was like she was already invisible.

But someone had seen her.

Had gotten close enough to touch her world without leaving a trace.

She folded the note and shoved it deep into her pocket. Her hands trembled as she sat. The air around her felt too tight, like it was pressing in on her lungs.

What did they want?

Why now?

And more importantly-how had they found her here?

Inside his office, Damian felt the air shift.

He looked up, already moving toward the door before he even knew why.

Isabella wasn't at her desk.

"Where is she?" he snapped at the floor manager.

"I-I think she went to the restroom, sir-"

He didn't wait. He pushed into the hallway, glancing sharply around. His gut burned with something ugly.

And then he saw her.

Leaning against the wall by the window. Pale. Breathless.

Like someone had punched the air out of her.

He stepped in front of her, grabbed her wrists gently, and spoke low.

"What happened?"

She shook her head. "It's nothing."

"Don't lie to me," he said again, sharper this time.

What did he leave this time?"

Her brows furrowed. "What-?"

"I know someone left something. I watched the camera feed. Your desk was clean. You left. When you came back, there was a note. Don't insult my intelligence."

She looked down.

"Give it to me."

With trembling hands, she pulled the paper from her pocket and handed it over.

He read it in one glance. His face didn't change-but the energy in the room snapped like a live wire.

He crushed the paper in his fist.

"He used your real name."

She nodded.

"I didn't use it on anything here. I gave my mother's name. Volkov."

"You think that matters now?" he asked sharply.

She flinched.

He inhaled through his nose. "Who is after you, Isabella?"

"I don't know."

He took a step forward.

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying," she whispered. "I don't know who exactly. It could be any of my father's enemies. He made a lot of them before he died. And when he did... they came for us."

"Us?"

She hesitated. "My mother. And me."

He stared at her for a long time. "How did you escape?"

"I ran. I crossed borders. I changed my name. I erased myself."

"But someone found you."

Her voice cracked. "Yes."

He moved closer.

"You're not safe."

"I know."

"You can't stay in that apartment."

"I-"

"You're staying with me."

Her eyes widened. "Damian, that's not-"

"You're staying in my penthouse until I find out who's behind this."

Her voice dropped. "You don't have to do that."

"I do."

"Why?"

His eyes bore into hers.

"Because they think they can take you," he said quietly. "And I want them to understand something."

Her pulse fluttered. "What?"

"That you belong to me."

They left the building at six.

The car ride was silent.

Isabella sat on the far end of the black leather seat, her hands folded in her lap, her shoulders tense.

Damian didn't speak. He didn't need to.

The silence between them said everything.

She didn't know what scared her more:

The man from Russia...

Or the man beside her, who'd just crossed a line he'd never intended to

And when they arrived at Knight Tower, and the private elevator opened into a penthouse larger than any place she'd ever lived, she forgot how to breathe.

Marble floors.

Floor-to-ceiling windows.

Furniture that looked like it belonged in a design museum.

And him-watching her as if he was waiting for her to break.

"This is temporary," she said under her breath.

He stepped past her and keyed in a code on the hallway panel.

"I know," he said. "But while you're here..."

He turned.

"You're safe."

She didn't feel safe.

She felt... claimed.

And when he handed her a keycard and walked away without another word, she stood there, alone in a space that didn't feel like a home.

It felt like a test.

A golden cage.

This wasn't protection.

This was possession.

And she had no idea which one she needed more.