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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Tyson had watched Olivia’s face as she listened to the person on the other end of the line. Every muscle in her body had tensed at the caller’s first words, and the color had drained from her face.

He’d guessed there was some type of romantic tension between Olivia and the person she’d spoken with even before she’d admitted as much.

So this Paul was both an ex and the lead FBI agent on her abduction case.

Tyson’s professional curiosity mingled with a more personal interest he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. Yet he felt a strange mixture of sympathy and relief.

“If it makes you feel better, some people can’t separate the trauma from the person.”

“Is that your professional diagnosis, Dr. Stone?” Her attempt at levity fell flat.

“Just an observation.” He paused and lowered his voice. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never seen you as a victim.”

Her eyes met his, surprise evident. “No?”

“I see someone who survived something unimaginable. Someone who still has nightmares but gets up every morning anyway.” Tyson held her gaze. “That’s not a victim, Olivia. That’s a warrior.”

Her breath caught and, for a moment, Tyson thought she might cry. Instead, she smiled—a small, genuine smile that reached her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I needed to hear that today.”

The air between them shifted, charged with something neither was ready to name. Tyson found himself wanting to reach for her hand but resisted. He had his promise to keep, his school to build. Getting involved with someone—especially someone as complicated as Olivia Montgomery—wasn’t part of the plan.

But plans changed. He knew that better than most. Still, he needed to be careful and not make any rash decisions.

“I should finish cleaning up,” he said finally, breaking the moment.

“Of course.” Olivia nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I need to review tomorrow’s segment anyway.”

As he stood to leave, she called his name. When he turned, the vulnerability in her expression nearly undid him.

“I’m glad I’m here, Tyson. Even with everything that’s happening.”

“So am I,” he admitted.

And despite all the reasons it was a terrible idea, he meant it.

* * *

Olivia watched Tyson leave, her emotions in turmoil.

Paul’s call had surprised her. She hadn’t expected him to return her call so quickly, or to call on Tyson’s landline.

With a sigh, Olivia wandered through Tyson’s living room, needing to move, to think.

She found herself drawn to the display cabinet in the dining room, one filled with trinkets and souvenirs.

A small, carved wooden box caught her eye. It seemed out of place among the modern pieces, its dark wood weathered with age.

Curiosity piqued, she opened it.

Her heart stopped.

Nestled inside on red velvet lay a white porcelain mask—the elegant, expressionless face of Casanova.

Identical to the one The Admirer had worn.

The room tilted. Her vision narrowed to the mask’s hollow eyes, empty and soulless.

She stumbled backward, knocking into the table, unable to tear her gaze from the nightmarish object.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

The crash brought Tyson running from the kitchen. He found her pressed against the wall, eyes fixed on the open box.

“Olivia?” Alarm filled his voice as he approached. “What’s wrong?”

She pointed a trembling finger at the mask. “Where did you get that?”

Tyson looked confused. “Get what?”

“The mask!” Her voice rose in panic. “The Casanova mask!”

He stepped forward to look inside the box.

Then he turned back to her, concern etched across his features. “I don’t know where that came from.”

He led her to the couch and lowered her there. Then he called for Hobbes.

His assistant rushed into the room. “Yes?”

“Do you know where that mask came from?”

Hobbes glanced in the direction Tyson pointed. His face went still, and then he shook his head. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“How would someone get inside to leave it there?”

“I have no idea,” Hobbes admitted.

“Call security and look at the footage. I want answers.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tyson turned back to Olivia. “I didn’t know it was there. I promise.”

Olivia nodded, believing him.

But how had someone gotten inside to leave that mask? To send her that reminder of what had happened? And, most likely, of what was going to happen?

“I’m sorry, Olivia,” Tyson murmured.

The tenderness in his tone nearly broke her. She wanted to tell him everything—about the mask, about Paul’s call, about her fears that Brian Elliot hadn’t been The Admirer after all.

But she couldn’t form the words. Not yet.

Instead, she straightened her shoulders and stood. “I feel like I should lie down.”

“Olivia.” Tyson took a step toward her, then stopped himself. The restraint was visible in every line of his body. “You’re not facing this alone. Not anymore.”

For one wild moment, she wanted to cross the space between them, to feel his arms around her, to believe that safety was possible again.

But she knew better.

Getting close to Tyson would only complicate things—for both of them.

“Thank you.” Her voice cracked. “For understanding.”

“Always.” The word felt like a promise neither of them was ready to make.

As she headed upstairs, Olivia couldn’t shake the image of the mask from her mind.

The roses were counting down. Six would be next.

And after that, four. Then two.

And finally, one.

Then this guy—or this imitator—would grab her.

But this time, would she survive?