The morning after their fingers intertwined in the dark, Elena woke alone again.
But this time, she didn't feel abandoned—she felt watched.
Her eyes scanned the room. Nothing out of place. Yet a chill crept along her skin like an unseen hand.
She rose, tugging the silk robe closer, and walked to the balcony. Below, security was doubled—Henri's men in suits patrolling like lions in a den. Whatever happened at the cemetery wasn't over.
And neither was the way Henri had touched her.
Not just physically, but emotionally.
That unguarded moment in the dark haunted her more than his kiss.
She was about to turn when a flash of silver caught her eye.
Across the courtyard, perched in a shadowy alcove, stood a man—hooded, watching.
Elena's heart thundered. She blinked. The figure vanished.
Again.
She ran down the hall, nearly crashing into Marco, one of Henri's top guards.
"Where is your boss?" she demanded.
"Out," Marco said, eyes scanning the hallway.
"Who's watching the cameras?"
He hesitated. "That's on a need-to-know basis."
Elena stepped close, voice deadly. "You forget—I wear his ring now. That makes me 'need-to-know.'"
Marco clenched his jaw. Then nodded once and led her downstairs.
The surveillance room was like something from a heist movie—screens everywhere, angles of every corner of the Castellanos estate. Elena's breath caught when she saw one screen glitching in and out.
"That's the west alcove," she said. "Where I saw him."
Marco cursed under his breath. "Who authorized a signal jam here?"
He started barking orders into his radio, but Elena's attention locked on a freeze-frame—a frame the system caught right before the feed failed.
It was him. The same man from the cemetery.
Elena's fingers trembled. "Marco, do you know who he is?"
"No," Marco said. "But he's confident. He knows the blind spots. And he's not afraid to be seen by you."
Her blood went cold.
That wasn't just a message. That was a warning.
Hours later, Henri returned—storming into the study, tie already loosened, eyes hard.
"You're playing dangerous games, Elena," he snapped before she could speak.
She stood from the armchair. "I'm not the one jamming cameras on your estate."
"You went to surveillance without me. You overstepped."
"I saw him again. What would you have me do—sit and wait to be killed in your castle?"
Henri slammed his fist against the desk. "You are not bait!"
"No?" she fired back. "Because that's exactly how I feel."
He froze.
Elena's chest rose and fell, her robe slightly slipping off her shoulder from the adrenaline.
Henri noticed.
His eyes softened, and he stepped closer.
"Elena," he said, voice low, "if anything ever happened to you—"
"You'd what?" she challenged. "Burn the world?"
Their bodies were inches apart now. She could feel his warmth. His breath.
"No," he whispered. "I'd burn myself."
She didn't see it coming—his lips crashed into hers, full of desperation and ache and apology. His arms wrapped around her, lifting her slightly onto the desk as her legs instinctively locked around his waist.
They kissed like drowning souls—needing each other more than air.
She gasped between kisses. "I want you, Henri."
He carried her into the study's private alcove, setting her down on the velvet chaise.
His mouth worshiped her skin, every touch claiming, every whisper a war between want and restraint.
"You're mine now," he said, breath ragged. "And I protect what's mine."
But even as they tangled in passion, the security room upstairs was empty—save for one figure.
A maid. Blonde. Quiet. Invisible.
She entered with practiced silence, inserted a silver drive into the main console, and transferred data within seconds. Her eyes didn't flinch when footage of Elena and Henri together flashed across the screens.
She pulled out her earpiece.
"He trusts her now," she said softly.
The voice on the other end was calm. Male. Familiar.
"Good. Keep watching. But do not interfere."
"Understood," she said. "What's the next move?"
A long pause.
"File number four."
Click.