Part 27
Adrian had learned to hide fear behind routine.
The more normal things appeared, the safer he seemed.
So he let Alex follow him everywhere again — through interviews, rehearsals, studio sessions — smiling when she handed him water, thanking her when she reminded him of meetings.
But every night, when she left his apartment, he began his quiet work.
The first thing he checked was her ID.
Alex Harper, Administrative Assistant, H&E Management.
No trace of her on any internal employee list.
No payroll history.
No address.
He sent the details to an old friend in security with one note:
Find out who she really is. Quietly.
Then he deleted the message and sat in silence, staring at his own reflection in the dark window.
There was a time when he'd trusted every person around him.
Now even a smile felt like a trap.
The next morning, Alex brought him coffee as usual.
Her tone was bright, easy — but her eyes lingered a second too long.
"You didn't sleep," she said softly.
Adrian smiled faintly.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
"Work. Always work."
She didn't respond, just nodded, but he caught the faintest flicker of something behind her calm—an awareness.
Later, during a break in rehearsal, Adrian's friend texted back:
Your assistant doesn't exist. The ID number belongs to someone who died four years ago.
His stomach tightened.
He looked across the studio.
Alex was watching him through the glass, her expression unreadable, one hand holding a fresh sunflowers wrapped in paper.
She smiled when he met her gaze.
And that was when he knew—she knew he was looking.
That evening, as he left the studio, Adrian found his car already waiting.
The driver's seat was empty.
On the dashboard lay a single note, written in her neat, precise handwriting:
You don't have to search for me. I'll tell you when you're ready.
— Alex
He sat back, the paper trembling slightly in his hands.
She wasn't just ahead of him.
She was watching his moves before he made them.