Page 4

There’s something poetic about installing a surveillance cage beneath a billionaire’s estate.

If you’re into irony.

I’m not. But I notice it.

The basement under the east wing is supposed to be a gym. Instead, it has become a nerve center. A place with cold concrete, exposed pipes, and a humidifier that’s doing jack shit. But with the right tech and a few hours alone, it’s exactly what I need.

Evander’s firewalls are outdated. Of course they are. Corporate arrogance always assumes its money can outthink hackers, but I bypass them in twenty-three minutes flat using an encrypted network I built in the Middle East after my unit got bombed halfway into a black site.

“Thanks for the skeleton key, Vic,” I mutter, tapping in the last override.

The control room comes to life like Frankenstein’s monster, cables hissing as they settle into place.

One wall lights up with standard black-and-white camera feeds, some enhanced with thermal overlays I sourced from a retired CIA buddy who owed me.

Another monitor floods with audio streams, tuned to pick up whispered arguments and midnight breakdowns.

And then there’s the blueprint, now layered with active GPS pings, every inch of the estate becoming a map of my new hunting grounds.

I type in a few commands, backdoor the estate’s entire network, and redirect all data to my secure satellite uplink.

The security infrastructure here was built by someone who thought “two-factor authentication” was cutting-edge.

I replace it with a system that rewrites its own code every twelve hours.

Nothing gets in or out without my say-so.

If I were a better man, I might feel bad about invading the girl’s privacy.

But I’m not.

And she’s not just anyone.

Lyra Vane.

She’s careless, but definitely not stupid.

Her phone, which I connected to my computer by installing an application while she was asleep, unlocked on the first try.

Her passcode was her birthday. Cute, but a rookie move.

Either she thinks no one would dare snoop, or she’s too busy setting Instagram on fire to care.

Honestly, it’s a miracle no one’s leaked a full dossier on her already.

I’ve seen higher walls on abandoned compounds in war zones.

I start parsing through her digital breadcrumbs: text messages that read like well-armed stand-up routines.

Everything is a punchline or a misdirection.

The vulnerability hides in the quietness between replies.

Group chats with titles like “Hellspawn Coven” and “This Is Why We Drink.” The kind of stuff that screams, “I hate the world but also, please love me.”

Not a single message rings true without a mask attached.

Spotify reveals a split personality with angry alt-rock and industrial beats, and then, at 3:14 a.m., jazz so soft that it sounds like she’s trying to seduce her own insomnia.

Her internet search history is loaded with questions she’ll never ask aloud.

“How to fix a father wound?”

“Is freedom a real thing?”

“Why do I feel safest when I’m being watched?”

I lean back in the chair with my arms crossed. So, she has a kink of being watched? Maybe I can do something about that. I smirk to myself.

“She wants to feel untouchable,” I murmur. “But she wants someone to touch the truth.”

And holy hell, the photos.

Her social media is a curated chaos, equal parts fantasy and fuck-you energy.

A buffet of contradictions, dressed in thigh-highs and lip-gloss rebellion.

Every post is a performance. Low angles, high heels, tongue out, attitude cranked to eleven.

It’s like she knows exactly what kind of attention she draws and dares the world to stare harder.

The camera doesn’t just love her. It worships her.

One photo stops me cold. She’s in a black mesh dress that clings to her body like a second skin, all sharp lines and barely-there fabric.

Her tongue pokes out, her middle finger sticks up, and the smirk on her face says she owns the moment and every poor bastard looking at it.

Even her nipples are visible through the fabric, round and perky.

There’s a smear of glitter across her cheekbone and a look in her eye that says she knows exactly what she’s doing.

She knows the power of it and wields it like a weapon.

“The girl can’t be serious,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck, but my voice comes out rougher than I intend.

Because part of me wants to write her off as reckless, just another headline waiting to happen.

But the other part of me—the deeper, quieter, and much harder to ignore part of me—can’t look away.

There’s something magnetic in all that disarray and those familiar eyes.

Something bold, unapologetic, and dangerous.

She’s not just posing. She’s daring someone to come closer.

And damn it, I might be the fool who does. Who doesn’t love a challenge?

If I didn’t know what she looked like behind the filters, curled up in bed, her face soft in sleep, and her hand twitching like she’s fighting invisible enemies, I might believe she was exactly what the internet shows.

But I do know. And that’s the problem.

I’ve already watched her for too long, memorized her routines, and counted the ways she tests the fences. She moves like a challenge, like she’s begging for someone to say no just so she can figure out how to make them say yes .

And now she’s officially mine to protect. Which means mine to control.

I stand and stretch, listening to the subtle whir of the system at full function—every camera, every mic, every sensor feeding me her life in real time.

Above me, she’s awake.

I already snuck into her room and installed the night-vision cameras while she was dead asleep. It’s not exactly my proudest moment, but hey, stealth is part of the job description, right? She didn’t even stir. She was out cold, probably dreaming about lighting the world on fire in six-inch heels.

Convincing Evander to green-light the whole operation wasn’t exactly a walk in the park either.

The man treats boundaries like sacred scripture, and I had to practically drag him to the altar of paranoia.

But all it took was a carefully timed conversation, just a few well-placed comments about stalkers and overzealous fans and how fast bad press can spread when someone’s daughter ends up on the wrong side of a headline.

He tensed up instantly. I’ve known the man for years, so I know what works on him. Classic Evander. With his clenched teeth, the twitch in his temple, and his eyes darting like he was already imagining lawsuits and ransom notes.

I let the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat before I hit him with the closer: “But hey, if you’re comfortable risking her safety to spare her privacy, I’ll back off.”

Checkmate.

He cracked like a damp matchstick. He waved me off with a dramatic sigh and muttered something about “taking whatever measures necessary.” He didn’t even ask for specifics, which, let’s be honest, was a rookie move on his part.

So now, the cameras are in. They’re not the most discreet, considering I’m not some perverted bastard who wants to film women without their consent.

I told myself it was for her protection.

Mostly true. But there’s a part of me, the part that has watched her push boundaries like she was born to provoke, that wants to know what she’s like when the act drops.

When no one’s watching, or she thinks they aren’t.

Turns out, someone always is.

Right now, she’s moving through her bedroom like a trapped animal. Barefoot and pacing. I watch on the thermal feed—red, orange, and yellow. She’s hot with adrenaline. That nightmare again.

She gets it every night at the same time. The same twitch of her left hand, the same delayed breath when she sits up. Trauma’s got a fingerprint, and hers is etched into her REM cycle.

I could block it. I could turn off the mic and give her space.

But I don’t.

Because I need to know the shape of her fear.

If I’m going to keep her safe, I need to understand what breaks her. And what keeps her together.

It’s not just intel. It’s art.

I move to the board mounted behind me and scribble a few notes under her name:

Left-handed (dominant when stressed)

Nightmares at the 2:50–3:10 a.m. window

Avoids eye contact with her father unless pissed

Keeps the closet light on but tells the staff to shut it off before bed

She’s layered, but she’s readable. She’s like a puzzle that wants to be solved, just not too quickly.

My phone buzzes. It’s a message from Evander.

“Report,” it says.

I ignore it.

Because right now, she’s moving toward the window again. Expecting to see me there like yesterday, but I’m not there tonight. I’m too busy following her movements from down here.

The door slams open like a shotgun blast.

My fork doesn’t pause.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

Lyra storms into the dining hall in a storm-grey robe that clings to her thighs like a secret. Her hair is still wet, long dark waves dripping onto the marble like she drowned someone in the shower and walked away without flinching.

If she did, I’d be impressed.

She’s fire, barely leashed, and that robe might as well be armor with the way she wears it—tight belt, high chin, her eyes full of murder.

This should be interesting.

“What the fuck is this?” she demands, her voice slicing through the quiet like a scalpel. “There are cameras in my bedroom. And the hallway. Did you seriously think I wouldn’t notice?”

I glance up from my breakfast of two poached eggs, avocado sliced to surgical precision, halved cherry tomatoes arranged like a soldier’s discipline, and rye toast crisped just shy of burnt. And coffee, black. Next to one folded napkin. I take another bite, slow and unbothered.

“Your perimeter,” I say. “I upgraded it.”

“You put a camera in my bedroom ,” she seethes, her hands clenched at her sides.

“Correct.”