Page 286 of Rosetti Family New York
Just my name. And below it, in that same neat writing:
You always loved jasmine in the morning.
I stare at the note until the words blur, until my vision fades at the edges, until I have to remind myself to breathe.
Someone has been here. In my room. My safe place.
Not just anyone. Him. The realization hits hard. Not a random intruder or hotel staff with poor boundaries. Him. The man I've been avoiding for years, the predator whose presence I've felt like a weight on my skin across continents.
Emilio Rosetti has been in this room.
He's touched these surfaces and arranged this flower with the same care he once used for everything important. He's written my name in handwriting that used to appear on notes hidden in my clothes, sweet messages I found when love seemed endless. The flower is placed exactly where I would have put it. It's not dramatically positioned or hidden like a secret; it's just there. Natural. Like the room was incomplete without this one detail, this reminder from a past I've tried so hard to forget.
The full extent of the violation sinks into me. He's been here. While I was dealing with Connor Callahan, playing dangerous games with people who kill out of disappointment,hewas here. In my space. Among my things. Learning my new habits the wayhe once learned my body, with complete attention and endless patience.
But it's more than just violation. That's what makes my hands shake and my vision blur. It's the care. The precision. The way he remembered something I’d forgotten about myself—that I used to pick jasmine because the scent made mornings feel like promises instead of threats. That I'd leave single blooms on his nightstand.
This isn't just breaking and entering. This is curating. This is someone who knows me so well he can turn invasion into homecoming, surveillance into courtship.
I step back from the coffee table, my heart pounding so loudly I can hear it. My hands shake as I turn on the phone's camera to capture the evidence.
There is a flower, a note, a scent that shouldn't be here. It's a reminder that I'm not invisible and never have been. Every move I've made, every identity I've taken on. None of it matters to someone who sees me so clearly that years apart feel like minutes.
For the next two hours, I conduct the most thorough security check of my life. I inspect every surface, check every electronic device, and search every possible hiding place for cameras, microphones, or tracking devices.
I find nothing, no surveillance equipment, no signs of forced entry. The only proof of someone being here is my growing certainty and the flower that fills the room with memories.
It's a level of intrusion only possible with professional skills or family money, making restraining orders useless against someone who doesn't follow the law.
As night falls and Manhattan lights up like a sea of stars, I circle the jasmine flower as if it were dangerous. I don't touch it, barely breathe, fearing any small disturbance could lead to something worse.
When I finally get into bed, door locked, phone charged, escape routes memorized, the scent lingers. It drifts through the expensive sheets, filling my dreams with images of Mediterranean gardens and gray eyes that see everything without judging, remembering details that turn hunting into a form of worship.
I dream of mornings filled with promises. Of hands that instinctively know how to explore skin without needing permission. Of a love so complete it defies legal boundaries and common sense.
When I wake to the warm light of late morning, my first thought isn't about Chase Callahan or the increasingly complex web of lies I'm spinning. It's fear. Pure, deep fear that someone thinks I'm worth this kind of attention. Worth the risk of being exposed. Worth the careful planning needed to get past top-notch security and leave gifts that feel more like threats than anything else.
The realization hits with awful clarity. This is how it begins, not with violence or open force, but with gifts. With attention so intense it makes being alone feel like being deserted. With someone who sees you so clearly that being invisible becomes a lie and giving in starts to feel unavoidable.
I sit up in my wrinkled pajamas and look at the jasmine bloom, still there in the morning light. It's proof that Emilio Rosetti has found me again, been here, and left his mark on my safe space in ways that go beyond simple intrusion. The sensible thing would be to pack up right away and run, like I've been doing, always staying one step ahead of the predator whose attention feels both threatening and promising.
But as I watch the late morning sun highlight the delicate petals, I realize something important has changed. It's not just my location or security measures, but my understanding of what I'm truly running from. Not him.
It's the part of me that might want to be found. And that scares me more than any direct threat.
I slide out of bed and walk slowly to the coffee table. The jasmine is starting to show signs of aging, petals a bit less firm, color turning from pure white to cream. I pick up the flower and study it one last time. Then, with movements driven by both anger and fear, I crush it between my fingers. The fragile petals crumble, releasing one last burst of that powerful scent before turning to dust in my hand.
I go to the window and let the pieces scatter into the wind, watching them vanish into the vastness of Manhattan.
6
Mara
That evening, the bathroom mirror in the penthouse shows a stranger staring back at me. I've changed my look so many times that I sometimes forget who I was before all this began. Before I left him. Before I started running.
I touch the sleek bob I still haven’t gotten used to, tucking a strand behind my ear in a way that feels both strange and familiar. Even here, forty floors above Manhattan in a building owned by one of Chase Callahan's shell companies, I feel the weight of Emilio's digital eyes watching me. I tried to evade him, but there's no escaping Emilio Rosetti.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself against the mahogany countertop. My reflection shows flawless makeup, perfect clothes, not a hair out of place, the armor I've built to face the world. But under it, exhaustion shows in my eyes. Years of running, changing myself, and watching out for both Callahan's enemies and Emilio's watchful eyes have worn me down.
