Isabella Sinclair first noticed the man because he didn't belong.
He stood across the street from St. Aldrich Academy, leaning against a rusted sedan that looked painfully out of place among black town cars and polished SUVs. His jacket was too thin for the cold, his gaze too sharp, sweeping the iron gates like he was counting exits.
When his eyes found her—
They lingered.
A chill slid down her spine.
Isabella tightened her grip on her bag and kept walking, heels clicking in steady rhythm. She told herself she was imagining things. New York was full of strangers. Paranoia was unbecoming.
Still, she glanced back.
The man was on his phone now, murmuring something she couldn't hear.
Her pulse quickened.
Rafe knew the second something was wrong.
He was halfway through a calculus lecture he didn't need, mind already split between numbers and Kingsbridge, when his phone vibrated in his pocket.
Nico: Kane's men are watching the school.
Rafe's blood went cold.
He didn't look for Isabella.
That was the first rule—distance.
He looked around but couldn't find her anywhere, his jaw clenched.
Lena leaned over and kissed his cheek, smiling bright and trusting, Rafe smiled back at her planting a kiss on her lips.
During closing hours Isabella stood outside the school premises waiting for her ride.
He was late again.
Isabella checked her watch for the third time as the afternoon light faded. Students filtered away in clusters, laughter echoing off stone walls, until the hallways felt too large. Too empty.
Her phone buzzed.
Dad: Running behind, ten minutes.
She exhaled slowly.
That was when she sensed movement.
Footsteps.
Not hurried not careless Measured.
"Miss Sinclair."
Her heart jumped.
The man from earlier stepped into view, smile thin, eyes calculating. "Your father sends a lot of cars for you."
"I don't know you," Isabella said, keeping her voice calm.
"No," he agreed. "But I know you."
Panic flickered—controlled, buried.
"Step away from me," she said.
He chuckled softly. "Relax. Just wanted to talk."
She took a step back.
And then—a shadow moved fast.
Rafe came out of nowhere, hand gripping the man's collar, slamming him against the iron fence with bone-jarring force.
"You picked the wrong girl," Rafe said quietly.
The man's smile vanished. "Easy, Moretti. Kane just wanted a message delivered."
Rafe's eyes were lethal. "Tell Kane if he looks at her again, I'll bury him."
He released the man, who staggered away, muttering curses.
Silence crashed down.
Isabella stared at Rafe, breath unsteady. "You followed me."
"I protected you," he corrected.
Lena's voice cut through the air. "Rafe?"
They both froze.
Lena stood a few feet away, confusion etched across her face.
"What's going on?" she asked.
Rafe stepped back instantly, distance snapping into place. "Nothing. Guy was bothering her."
Lena frowned, then turned to Isabella. "Are you okay?"
Isabella nodded, forcing composure. "I'm fine."
Rafe didn't look at her again.
That night, jealousy burned hotter than fear.
Rafe paced the warehouse, knuckles bruised, jaw tight.
"She shouldn't be anywhere near this," he snapped.
Malik crossed his arms. "Then stop looking at her like she's already yours."
Rafe stilled. "She's not."
"Then why'd you threaten Kane over her?"
Silence.
Across the city, Isabella lay awake, replaying the way Rafe had moved—fast, furious, protective.
The way he'd stepped away the moment Lena appeared.
The restraint hurt more than the danger.
They were circling something fragile and forbidden.
And the streets had noticed.
Next day at school, the universe had a cruel sense of timing.
Isabella stared at the name on the board at the front of the lecture hall, her pulse slowly climbing into her throat.
Sinclair, I. — Moretti, R Paired, Together.
For the Foundations of Leadership project.
She didn't look at him, She didn't have to.
She felt Rafe's attention like heat against her skin.
"This is ridiculous," Lena whispered from the seat beside her. "You two barely speak."
Isabella forced a shrug. "I'll survive."
Rafe rose from his chair at the back, movements controlled, jaw tight. "We'll keep it professional."
The word landed between them like a challenge.
The library study room was too small.
Too quiet.
Glass walls. One table. Two chairs placed far too close together.
Isabella sat first, opening her laptop with hands that refused to steady. Rafe took the chair opposite her, long legs stretched out, forearms resting on the table. Tattoos. Scars. Familiar now in ways she hated.
"Let's get this done fast," she said.
"Agreed," he replied.
They worked in silence—papers sliding back and forth, fingers brushing once, briefly.
She pulled her hand back too quickly.
Rafe noticed.
"Relax," he said softly. "I'm not going to touch you."
Her laugh was brittle. "That's reassuring."
Minutes passed. The air thickened.
"You're good at this," she said before she could stop herself.
He glanced up. "You're surprised?"
"A little."
"I didn't grow up stupid," he said quietly. "Just poor."
Guilt flickered in her chest.
Their eyes met.
The room seemed to shrink.
Isabella stood abruptly. "I need air."