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He’s no ordinary creep with a hard-on for celebrity skin.

No. This guy’s playing a different game.

And I’m going to find him.

Because no one threatens my wife without paying the price.

I want him caught. Want to be the one to tie the noose around his neck.

It has to be me.

My Lucy is too sweet, too pure for that kind of thing. But not me.

I am her vengeance.

And this asshole earned what he has coming to him.

Now, I know he either paid someone off or knew enough to scrub the apartment building’s security feeds himself.

That takes skill.

Access.

Money.

Which narrows the list down.

I’m already elbows-deep in shell companies and burner accounts. Cross-referencing time stamps with known associates of the main person of interest.

El fucking Tigre.

The reggaetón superstar with the wandering hands and diamond grills. The one who wrote a damn anthem about my woman like he had a right to her.

Fuego Lento, my ass.

More like calculated bait—lyrics meant to stake a claim in public. And the video?

Don't even get me started.

Him standing too close, his gaze lingering too long. Lucy’s skin practically glowing under those lights, while he looked at her like a wolf in heat.

I don’t know yet if it’s him or someone close to him.

A bodyguard, a crew member, even a deranged fan. But the vibe’s all wrong.

There’s too much coordination. Too much nerve.

Whoever it is—they’re circling her like vultures.

But they don’t realize she’s not prey anymore.

She’s got me now.

And I’ll be damned if I let anyone lay a finger on her.

I’ve already increased surveillance on her family’s estates, on Connor and Clementine’s house, and added two more firewalls to her phone and email.

She doesn't know it yet, but her online activity reroutes through my secure servers now.