Sadie
The afternoon dragged on in muted colours.
Every keystroke felt too loud. Every conversation sounded like it had a hidden layer underneath. I tried to focus on spreadsheets, formulas, anything concrete — but my thoughts kept drifting to the same place.
Zane wasn't here.But somehow, he was everywhere.
By the time five o'clock rolled around, my nerves felt stretched thin, like someone had been quietly plucking the strings inside my chest all day.
I packed up my things, trying to look normal. Trying to be normal.
"Heading out?" June asked, popping her head over the cubicle wall.
"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "Long day."
She nodded sympathetically, then lowered her voice.
"Be careful," she whispered. "It feels… strange around here."
A chill slipped down my spine.
Strange.Everyone felt it.
Not danger — not exactly.Just pressure, like the air before a thunderstorm.
I left the building quickly, the automatic doors sighing shut behind me.
Outside, the sky had dimmed into a soft, moody gray. People hurried by, umbrellas ready even though it hadn't started raining yet.
I noticed the black sedan immediately.
Same model. Same stillness. Same tinted windows.Not the clumsy stalker car from before — this one was polished, expensive.
So quiet it felt like a held breath.
I glanced away and pretended not to see it, but my heart tapped a nervous rhythm.
I stepped onto the sidewalk.
One step.
Two.
And then—
"Miss Robertson?"
I turned.
It was the man who drove me last night — the one Zane had sent.
He was tall, dressed in a simple black suit, his expression unreadable.
"Mr. Gonzalez asked that I escort you home."
I blinked. "I didn't ask for a car."
He gave a small nod. "He didn't ask if you wanted one."
The words landed with a soft, inevitable weight.
Of course he hadn't.
I hesitated. A normal person would refuse. A normal person would say No thanks, I can take the bus. A normal person would choose freedom over being monitored.
But I wasn't normal anymore.Or maybe I never had been — not since Seattle, not since that night, not since him.
"Okay," I said quietly.
The driver opened the door. I climbed in.
The interior smelled faintly of cedar and rain, crisp and clean. I buckled my seat belt as the door closed with a soft click.
The city blurred past the windows as we drove. Lights streaked across glass. People hurried through crosswalks. Everything looked ordinary — painfully ordinary — except for the feeling in my chest.
"Is he expecting me?" I asked after a moment.
"Yes."
A simple word.No explanation.
My fingers tightened around my purse strap.
Another question slipped out before I could stop it:
"Did he tell you why?"
The driver's gaze flicked up to the rear-view mirror.
"No," he said. "He never explains. He gives instructions."
The car hummed quietly. My heart did not.
After a beat, though, he added:
"But when Mr. Gonzalez takes interest in someone, he ensures they're not left… unprotected."
Protected.Observed.Owned.
The words all felt too similar.
I turned my head toward the window, watching the rain start to gather against the glass before it finally, softly began falling.
When the car pulled up to my building, I almost asked if Zane was here already. But that felt too dangerous to say out loud.
The driver got out, walking around to open my door.
"Miss Robertson," he said quietly, "there will always be someone watching the entrance from now on. You may not see them. But they'll see you."
I froze.
"Is that… necessary?" I whispered.
He paused. Just for a breath.
Then, with a level voice, said:"According to him — yes."
A shiver slipped down my arms.
He stepped back and gave a small bow of the head, then returned to the car. It drove off without a sound, disappearing into the curtain of drizzle.
I stood there for a moment, clutching my bag, trying to steady the pulse pounding in my ears.
Then I felt it.
A quiet prickle on the back of my neck.
Like eyes.Like attention.Like a presence that wasn't quite close enough to see, but too close to ignore.
I turned slowly.
Nothing.
Just the parking lot.Just the stairwell.Just the rain.
But the feeling remained — a soft, invisible thread pulling taut between where I stood and somewhere in the distance.
Somewhere I couldn't see.
I breathed out shakily and went inside.
I had barely closed the door when my phone buzzed.
Not a call.A message.
Unknown Number:You got home safely. Good.
My breath caught.
A second message:
Your new supervisor will treat you well.He understands the expectations.
Expectations.Of him.Of me.Of everyone around me.
And then, a third message:
You don't need to worry, princess.Not about anything.
I stared at the screen, my pulse uneven.
Not reassurance.
A promise.
A claim.
A cage made of velvet and shadows.
I typed three words before I could stop myself:
Me:Are you here?
The typing dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Reappeared.
Then finally:
Unknown Number:Would it matter if I was?
I sucked in a breath.
My fingers trembled.Not with fear.Not with excitement.
With something in between —a dangerous, electric space where both emotions lived too close together.
Before I could reply, another message arrived:
Rest.I'll see you soon.
The screen went dark.
But the feeling of him did not.