Nova's POV
Someone is following me.
I spotted him three blocks ago, gray hoodie, hands in pockets, keeping the same distance behind me. My heart pounds as I turn the corner onto my street, clutching my grocery bag tighter.
Don't run. Running shows fear. Fear makes predators chase.
I learned that eighteen months ago when my world exploded. When Julian Harrington, the man I loved, the man I trusted with everything, destroyed my life and walked away smiling.
The man behind me is still there.
I pull out my phone, pretending to text while watching his reflection in a store window. He's closer now. Twenty feet. Fifteen.
My apartment building appears ahead, the old Tribeca brownstone converted into luxury lofts. Safety. I just need to reach the door.
Ten feet behind me now.
I speed up. So does he.
My fingers fumble with my keys. The building entrance is right there. Five more steps.
Excuse me, miss?
I spin around, key positioned between my knuckles like Lex taught me. The man in the gray hoodie stops, hands raised.
Whoa, sorry! He looks startled. You dropped this back there.
He holds out my metro card.
I stare at it, then at him. He's barely twenty, with kind eyes and a nervous smile. A college kid, not a killer.
Oh. My voice shakes. Thank you.
No problem. He hands it over and walks away whistling.
I stand there, trembling, feeling like an idiot. Another false alarm. Another random stranger I suspected of being one of Julian's hired assassins.
You're losing it, Nova. You're seeing threats everywhere.
But that's what happens when everyone you loved betrays you.
I take the stairs to the eighth floor, even though there's an elevator. Stairs give me control. Stairs have exits. Stairs mean I can run if I need to.
My apartment is exactly as I left it this morning—triple-locked, security camera active, not a single item out of place. I check anyway. Every room. Every closet. Every window.
Clear.
I collapse onto my couch, still shaking from the adrenaline. This is my life now. Jumping at shadows. Working from home under a fake name—Elle Vance—because Nova Ashford's reputation is radioactive. No friends except Lex. No family except a sister who testified against me in court.
Alone.
I boot up my laptop and lose myself in code. It's the only thing that makes sense anymore. Numbers don't lie. Algorithms don't betray you. In my digital world, I'm still brilliant, still valuable, still something.
Three hours pass before I remember to eat.
That's when I hear it.
Footsteps above me.
I freeze, fingers hovering over my keyboard. The penthouse apartment. Someone's moving around up there.
Him.
My mysterious neighbor. The ghost in the penthouse.
In eight months of living here, I've seen him exactly twice. Both times from a distance, but those glimpses burned into my memory in a way I don't want to examine too closely.
Tall—well over six feet. Broad-shouldered and lean in that way that screamed controlled power. Always dressed in expensive black clothing that looked tailored to his athletic frame. Dark hair. And once, just once, he glanced in my direction and I caught a glimpse of pale eyes—gray or blue, I couldn't tell from that distance, that made my breath catch before he disappeared like smoke.
Gorgeous in a way that felt dangerous.
I'd asked the building manager about him once, trying to sound casual. Mr. Mercer, she'd said. Very private. Pays a year's rent in advance. Never complains. Prefers not to be disturbed.
Prefers not to be disturbed was an understatement. The man was a ghost. No visitors. No noise. Just those rare moments when I caught a glimpse of him entering or leaving, and my traitorous heart would speed up for reasons I refused to acknowledge.
Because noticing attractive men—especially mysterious, reclusive ones—was not part of my survival plan.
The footsteps stop directly above my bedroom.
I tell myself it means nothing. He lives there. He's allowed to walk around.
But my paranoia whispers differently. And lately, there's been something else. A feeling I can't shake that someone's watching me. Protecting me, even.
My phone buzzes. Text from Lex: Security update—that package you were worried about? Building management lost it. Convenient, right?
I frown. Last week, a package arrived addressed to me—Nova Ashford, not Elle Vance. I never ordered anything. Never gave anyone this address under my real name.
I was going to open it until the manager said it mysteriously vanished from the mail room.
Lost packages. Security cameras that somehow always capture perfect footage of my floor. That drunk guy who followed me home last month and got arrested before reaching my apartment.
Too many coincidences.
I walk to my window, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. Somewhere out there, Julian is living his best life on my stolen work. The AI algorithm I created, the code I foolishly trusted him with before we got engaged, he claimed it as his own and built an empire.
And I'm here, hiding in a tiny apartment under a fake name, too scared to fight back because I barely escaped prison the first time he framed me.
My laptop pings. Email notification.
I don't recognize the sender: SecureAlert_TB_Building_Mgmt
Subject: SECURITY SYSTEM UPGRADE - RESIDENT NOTIFICATION
I open it.
Dear Resident,
We will be upgrading building security systems tonight between 2-4 AM. You may notice brief camera outages during this window. For your safety, please ensure all doors and windows are locked. Do not be alarmed by maintenance personnel in hallways.
Management
Something about it feels wrong.
We just had a security upgrade three months ago. Why another one? And why a 2 AM maintenance window?
I check the building's official website. No mention of tonight's upgrade.
I call the management office. It goes to voicemail, they closed an hour ago.
My heart starts racing again.
You're being paranoid. It's probably legitimate.
But my fingers are already pulling up the building's security camera feeds. I shouldn't have access to these, but I'm a hacker. Accessing a basic security system took me twenty minutes when I first moved in.
The cameras show normal hallway views. Empty. Quiet.
I switch to the exterior cameras.
That's when I see him.
A man in a maintenance uniform stands outside the building's service entrance, but he's not doing maintenance. He's talking on his phone, glancing up at my windows. His other hand rests on something at his belt.
A gun.
I zoom in, hands shaking.
He's not alone. Two more men, also in maintenance uniforms, also armed, approaching from the street.
My breath stops.
This is it. Julian finally sent them.
I jump up, mind racing. I need to run. I need to hide. I need
Every camera in the building goes black simultaneously.
All of them. Every single feed.
Then my apartment goes dark. Power cut. Emergency lights don't even come on.
In the sudden silence, I hear my apartment door handle turning.
Someone's trying to get in.
I didn't lock it after checking my mail.
The door swings open.
A figure stands silhouetted in the hallway emergency lighting. Tall. Broad. Moving with predatory grace.
For one insane second, I think: The penthouse ghost.
Then reality crashes back.
Nova Ashford, a man's voice says calmly. We need to talk.