The first time he followed her, it wasn't intentional.
That's what he told himself, at least.
Silas had stepped out for coffee one morning, a rare thing, considering he usually sent assistants for the mundane. But Riverton was different. It buzzed beneath his skin. Restless. Untamed. And so was he.
Then he saw her.
Grace Laurent, stepping into the florist's across the boulevard. No cameras. No entourage. Just her. A woman like thunder wrapped in silk, bending toward a bunch of white lilies, her long black hair gleaming under the morning sun.
He didn't go into the café.
He crossed the street instead, stood behind a tinted car window and watched her. Watched her fingertips ghost over petals like she was remembering something soft. Something far away.
That was the moment it shifted.
He didn't just want to know her. He needed to.
The next time, it was intentional.
A note in his schedule. A perfectly timed lunch across the street from Élan Mode's headquarters. A rented flat overlooking her building. And a camera with a 200mm lens.
He wasn't ashamed. Not really. He justified it the way people justify sin when it feels too good. He told himself it was curiosity. Interest. Fascination.
But obsession doesn't knock. It seeps in through the cracks.
He began cataloguing her life like it was a script he was meant to learn.
10:15 — The Driver picks her up from the east entrance.
11:00 — Meeting at Hotel Lumière, always the same suite.
2:30 — Gym, private sessions only. She never used the equipment, only trained in boxing.
6:00 — Rooftop bar at Vellum House on Fridays. Never drank more than two glasses. Never with the same company.
The people she met? Mostly executives. A few artists. And Julian Sterling.
Silas clenched his jaw at the name.
Julian. The man from the gala. Always standing too close. Always looking at her like she was his. Silas didn't like that. He didn't like the idea of anyone knowing her. Because she was meant to be unknown, a mystery only he had the right to unravel.
Every photo, every document, every tidbit of information, he pinned them to his wall. Some physical, some digital. A map of her existence. He went deeper.
He didn't visit the places himself. His men did.
Silas had men, not bodyguards, but shadows. Men who owed him favors, or money, or silence. Men who would track a name, break into files, and make calls under aliases without asking why.
They visited the university in Paris where she studied. Talked to professors, some of whom barely remembered her. "Quiet girl," one said. "A little too composed."
They returned with little.
He walked the cobblestone streets she had once walked. Sat in the cafés where she might have written reports. Imagined her across the table, stirring coffee she wouldn't finish.
But she left no trail of intimacy. No friends. No lovers. Not even enemies. Just... distance.
Still, he persisted.
He had his assistant contact Élan Mode under a fake identity. Posed as a luxury brand investor from Westbridge. All for a meeting that never happened.
He followed her car once, past the city and into the hills. She stopped at a private villa, surrounded by black iron gates. Stayed there for hours. No security. No staff. Just her.
He waited.
When she emerged, the sun had dipped behind the skyline. She looked serene. Like she had spoken to ghosts.
He didn't follow her home that night. He went back to his flat, poured himself a drink, and stared at the photo he took of her leaving the villa.
There was something in her eyes. Not sadness. Not peace.
Something unnameable.
He closed his laptop only to open another file. Notes. Clips. Observations.
But each new piece only deepened the mystery. It felt like she was always two steps ahead. Always slightly out of reach. And still, he couldn't stop.
She didn't look at the camera. Didn't glance at the rooftop lens. But some days, when she paused in her step, head tilted as if she felt something, Silas swore she knew.
It thrilled him. And terrified him.
Because if she did know...
Then maybe she was watching him too.