Page 25 of Sexted By a Stranger

Luca they showed several cars.

"The license plates are fake, can't trace the source.

They seem to be conducting surveillance; no further action yet. "

"Increase their protection," I ordered. "The place where Leon's competing—notify our people in that district to keep a close watch. Ragnar, I want you to personally watch Sheila. Have your men search every possible hideout Connor might be using."

"Yes, sir."

I jabbed my finger hard at several red-circled areas on the map. "Lennox, use every ear you've got. Dig deep. Where the hell is Connor hiding? He can't just vanish into thin air. Double the bounty—anyone who provides useful intel gets paid."

"Already on it, Boss." Lennox's eyes turned sharp. "Money talks. There's always some mole willing to take a risk for the right price."

I nodded. "Go. Any new information, tell me immediately."

Both men silently retreated, gently closing the office door behind them.

I forced myself to focus on business, but my gaze kept drifting toward Sheila's position.

She was reading a thick book, taking notes seriously.

It was one I'd specifically had Lennox acquire for her.

When she received the book, she still thanked me respectfully.

I closed my eyes.

I remembered Sheila curled up on the sofa in her white nightgown, reading; the gentle movement of her throat when she looked up to drink the warm water I handed her; her hazy eyes when she bloomed beneath me; the pain in her expression when she looked at my wounds; all that tender, considerate care she'd given me…

These images surfaced uncontrollably, crystal clear, intertwined with her red, accusatory eyes and her resolute back as she pulled away from me.

I'd never been so acutely aware that I was the one who'd brought Sheila pain, that I might lose her forever.

I was the source of her fear, the root of her suffering.

Leave all this behind?

Take her and our future child and completely escape this whirlpool soaked in blood and scheming?

The thought was absurd, yet incredibly tempting.

But if I did that, how would Soprano survive? The tangled web of grudges, the lurking enemies, all those people who depended on me, who followed me…

Once we were far from all this, could we really reach that peaceful harbor? I couldn't be sure.

I was wrong.

I shouldn't have been so presumptuous, hiding everything from her, building walls with lies. Instead, I'd only intensified her fear, pushing her further away.

My stellina had never been a hothouse flower. She was resilient, stubborn, brave enough to face any storm head-on.

Maybe if I'd been honest about everything from the start, we could have faced it all together.

Regret and helplessness drowned me.

I covered my face with my hands, as if that could block out the gnawing pain in my chest.

No.

I couldn't keep waiting passively like this.

This waiting was a coward's way of leaving choices to fate.

I couldn't bear to lose her.

I had to find a way out.

A path that would keep her safe without dragging more people into the abyss.

I had to start taking action.

That evening, I stopped outside Sheila's office door, took a deep breath, and pressed down the drumming heartbeat in my chest. I raised my hand and knocked gently on the door.

Three soft sounds echoed clearly in the quiet hallway.

The door opened a crack, revealing half of Sheila's face. She looked at me calmly, with a hint of inquiry but more of a distant wariness.

"Something you need, Mr. Bellomo?" Her voice sounded like she was addressing a not-quite-familiar neighbor.

"I brought you some food."

"Thank you." She took the items, about to close the door.

"Don't work too hard. Your health is important." I said through the door. "If you need any materials, I can help you find the best ones."

Silence from inside for a few seconds, then came her soft sigh. "I understand."

She seemed more easily tired than before—maybe the work was particularly draining.

I stayed outside her office door, listening to the scratching sound of pen on paper. She was completely absorbed in her creative work. I didn't want to disturb her, but I didn't want to leave either.

This kind of guardianship gave me peace of mind.

Sheila

The door closed behind me, and I didn't want to deal with Luca's emotionally complex expression.

Seeing him always reminded me of his cold words.

He didn't need a flesh-and-blood child cherished by loving parents. He needed only a tool who could one day take over his blood-soaked kingdom of violence. An heir born destined to walk the razor's edge, breathing gunpowder smoke.

The computer screen lit up, and a new email notification popped up.

Dear Sheila,

The New York Emerging Jewelry Designers Collective will be held next month, aimed at discovering and supporting truly talented fresh blood. The judging panel consists of industry veterans. I've attached the corresponding form. This is an unmissable stage—I look forward to seeing you shine.

Isabella Winston

This email came at such a perfect time, illuminating my heart that had been shrouded in despair and anger.

I filled out the form without hesitation. The moment I clicked "Send," strength flowed through my limbs.

In the following days, I buried myself completely in the office.

I traced lines over and over, carefully considering structural proportions. This total focus built a solid barrier, temporarily shutting out the turbulent emotions that man had stirred up.

I knew it was him. He was watching over me, like a silent shadow.

And not just him. Downstairs at the apartment building, I could always see several familiar cars parked not far away, and occasionally I'd run into Ragnar.

He would nod politely to me, then follow a few steps behind after I walked away.

On a weekend morning, I cleared my mind and wandered the garden path downstairs in my shawl. The building superintendent, Joseph, was trimming a cluster of blooming roses. When I approached, he stopped his large shears and smiled kindly from his wrinkled face.

"Good morning, Miss Stella," he greeted me.

"Good morning, Joseph. The roses are beautiful."

"Thank you for the compliment," he said, while naturally turning his body sideways, his gaze precisely and quickly sweeping the hedge path behind me, the movement so smooth it looked like he was just adjusting his stance.

I continued strolling forward. At the far end of the garden, Maria approached with her cleaning cart, her ponytail neat, her smile bright.

"Miss Stella." She stopped. "Good morning."

"Good morning," I replied.

As we passed each other, the corner of her eye quickly and silently swept the empty path behind me. Her steps remained light as she disappeared around the corner with her cart, as if that glance had never happened.

Back in my apartment, I stood by the window looking at everything before me. I had to admit one fact—Luca's protection was indeed as airtight as he'd promised.

This invisible fortress blocked out the world filled with smoke and blood, turning this place into a carefully crafted safety bubble. Inside this bubble, I could pursue my dream with complete focus.

This realization left me with complex feelings. Being so thoroughly protected didn't bring the expected sense of confinement. Instead, it strangely generated a warm current of security. I knew this was the wall he'd built.

What truly surprised me, even left me somewhat at a loss, was that our fierce argument seemed to have never happened—at least, there was no trace of it in Luca's behavior patterns.

He didn't burst into my space to argue or debate, but continued that silent care.

Every morning, no matter how early I arrived at the company, walking into my office, there was always food I loved on my desk.

In the office, the climate control system always maintained the most comfortable temperature. The latest issues of Vogue Jewelry and Jewelry Design Annual would quietly appear on the magazine rack beside my work station.

At night, when I dragged myself home exhausted and frustrated by design blocks, there would be my favorite aromatherapy hanging on the door and my beloved cherry-pink silk nightgown.

Once, in a heavy jewelry catalog, I found a plain white note tucked between the pages. It had only one line in strong, powerful handwriting: "Take care of yourself."

No signature, but I recognized the handwriting. My heart felt like something had gently bumped into it, sour and bittersweet.

Mom and Leon came back.

Leon didn't think there was anything wrong with me moving out of the manor—he'd always adapted well to new environments.

He rushed toward me excitedly as soon as he walked in.