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If there is one thing I know without a shadow of a doubt, it’s that Delilah Rose will be listed as the cause of my demise on my death certificate.

From the time I open my eyes in the morning to the moment I close them at night, she flits across my mind on a loop.

It’s suffocating.

Sickening.

Unacceptable.

It’s been two weeks since I had her up against me in my office, and shame still curdles through me when I think about how I inhaled the scent of her hair on my fingers after I told her to get out.

How I pulled up the camera feed for her room and watched her go through the motions of getting ready for bed.

How I had to readjust my slacks when she entered the frame in the silk pajamas I bought for her.

There was nothing revealing about what she had on but seeing her in the clothes I’d handpicked for her still had a way of fucking up my head.

I picked out everything in her closet.

Every. Single. Thing.

And seeing what she chooses to wear every day feeds a desire I didn’t know I had.

That night, Titus had eventually wandered upstairs to find her, and my eyes stayed glued to the screen while she sat on the floor and hugged him to her chest.

When she finally fell asleep, I went into her room and moved her to the bed. Time moved impossibly slower when her head hit the pillow and I stood there, rooted to the spot as I watched her sleep.

Later, when I walked out, I had to force my feet to carry me to the other side of the house.

How is it possible that this woman aggravates me when she’s awake and torments me in her sleep?

My only reprieve has been a week-long business trip to Italy that I got back from yesterday. I spent all seven days consumed with thoughts of her.

For the first time since I hired him, Victor stayed behind. I didn’t want anyone else in charge of her protection.

She likes Victor. Respects him.

Which is more than I’ll ever be able to say about what she feels for me.

I turn to him now as he hovers near the doorway of my home office.

“What did she do today?”

A troubled look passes over my guard’s face. “She didn’t come downstairs until an hour before you got home. She said she wasn’t feeling well and stayed in bed most of theday.” Another furrow forms between his brows. “After that, she fell going up the stairs. She says she’s okay.” He doesn’t sound like he believes it.

Part of me is tempted to assume the theatrics were because she’s agitated by my reappearance after a week of being free from me. Another part of me is on alert because I need to know she’s really okay. And a woman with constant headaches running into a wall and tripping up the stairs doesn’t soundokayto me…

While I was away, I made an appointment with Silas about her headaches. I planned to tell her over dinner, but neither one of us had been willing to break the thick silence at the table tonight. Not even a taunting insult before she got up and left her plate nearly untouched.

“Alonzo left footage for you on the cloud and a message from the rehab facility in Delray is waiting for you on your landline voicemail. Weston seems to be doing well with his recovery.”

Victor’s efficiency will forever be the standard I judge others against. He’s more than my guard; he’s my right hand.

I’m about to tell him he can go home when Titus’ whine cuts me off.

He runs back and forth in front of my open office door, the high pitch of his whine pushing me out of my seat into the hall to see the cause of his distress. It’s rare to see him with this much energy now that he’s older, but he has his bouts of beef with inanimate objects.

Last time it was a pinecone Ms. Agnes left in the living room during the holidays.