Page 11 of The Tracker

She took a seat on one of the barstools, the hush stretching between them like a fragile thread.

“Do you always get up this early?” she asked, meaning it as a joke but surprised by the curiosity in her own voice.

Dawson shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Never shook the habit. Army mess halls don’t care if you’re tired. Out here, I like to catch the quiet before the city wakes up. Reminds me I’m still my own man.”

There was a softness to him in the half-light she hadn’t seen before, and it cracked something open inside her.

“My dad used to make pancakes every Sunday,” she offered quietly, surprising even herself. “Even after my mom died. He’d burn them every time.”

Dawson glanced over, warmth flickering in his eyes. “Maybe you’ll teach me how not to ruin breakfast. We’ll call it even for the coffee.”

For a moment, the tension drained away, replaced by a simple, unexpected comfort. She wondered if this was what real safety felt like—not armor, but understanding.

She checked her bag—intact, exactly where she’d left it. Flash drive? Still in Dawson’s care, safer with him than anywhere else. Lipstick? Not a scratch, the casing gleaming like armor in herhand. The simple, familiar routine steadied her. If she could manage these small checks, she could manage anything. She could face a panel of executives and not blink. She could walk into a room full of reporters and keep her voice steady. She could handle any boardroom or power play the day might throw at her.

As Dawson picked up his keys, he also picked up the lethal-looking handgun and its holster and strapped it onto the back of his waistband.

“SIG?” she asked casually.

“SIGs are for sissies. I use a Glock.”

When they stepped into the elevator, Dawson keyed in his security code again. As the doors shut, she turned to him. "So what’s the plan? You play bodyguard while I act like nothing’s wrong?"

"Exactly."

"You suck at reassuring pep talks."

He glanced down at her. "You don’t need a pep talk. You need protection."

The elevator dinged, and they emerged into the underground garage. Dawson's black truck waited like a silent sentinel. He opened her door without flourish, and she climbed in, crossing her legs, slipping into her public face as she sipped the hot, dark brew.

The ride to Shaw Petrochemical’s headquarters was quiet, more businesslike than the night before. Traffic was light, but the business community was starting to come awake. She stared out the window, the buildings familiar and suddenly foreign all at once.

Dawson pulled into the underground lot and rolled down the window so security could see she was with him then drove to her spot and parked, climbed out, and opened her door without a word. She expected a quick escort to the door. Instead, he fell into step beside her, shadowing her all the way into the marbleatrium. She could feel the weight of his gaze as much as the sharp clicks of her boots.

The executive elevator ride was swift and suffocating. At the top floor, the doors parted—and the war began.

She was back in her world—glass walls, judgment, and sharp eyes waiting for her to stumble—and none of the armor she’d layered on felt like enough. Dawson trailed behind her like a shadow carved from steel, every inch of his silence drawing attention. And though he said nothing, his presence alone seemed to disrupt the careful performance she’d spent a lifetime perfecting—turning her from the poised, ornamental figure she was always meant to be into something far more conspicuous. Suddenly, she wasn’t just part of the backdrop. She was the focal point.

The rest of the morning was worse. Not because of the surreal quiet of waking in a stranger’s loft. Not even the unsettling convenience of finding her own clothes—somehow cleaned, pressed, and laid out without explanation. Or the way Dawson’s steady, protective presence made her feel both safer and unbearably exposed. No, it was worse because, for the first time, she didn’t know who they expected her to be—or who she was pretending to be just to make it through.

Dawson shadowed her like a bodyguard with an agenda, his presence bristling through every space she entered.

People noticed. Assistants who usually kept their heads down now stared openly, their eyes darting between her and the silent man beside her. Executives who typically interrupted without hesitation faltered mid-sentence, their tone adjusting as if on instinct.

Dawson said nothing. He didn’t need to. His presence alone drew attention like a magnet, shifting the room’s energy with silent authority. And Evangeline, who’d long mastered thepolitics of posture and poise, felt the social terrain shift beneath her like a fault line realigning.

The conference room buzzed with whispers, every glance like a blade against her composure. She felt them all—those sharp looks slicing beneath her skin. Her shoulders squared, her expression practiced, polished, and cold.

Then Peter stepped through the door, smug and too smooth. Her breath caught. The bastard was smiling.

It carried her back to that charity gala two years ago—Peter finding her alone on the balcony, champagne flute in hand, disarming her with that easy, practiced charm. He’d spoken of vision, legacy, and love as if they were facets of the same polished gem. She’d believed every word, mistaking rehearsal for sincerity.

She’d never been in line to run the company. Everyone, herself included, understood that the reins belonged to her father’s seasoned executives. Still, Peter made his pitch sound like true partnership. Signing off on his ‘joint initiative’ seemed harmless, even supportive. Letting him address the board felt like smart delegation.

In truth, it was a quiet transfer of influence. While she smiled for the cameras, he eased her from valued liaison to ornamental figurehead—slipping whatever symbolic authority she held out of her grasp while assuring her nothing had changed.

It had cost her dearly. Confronted now with Peter’s betrayal, she grasped the depth of the ground she needed to reclaim: her father’s confidence, the board’s respect, and faith in her own worth beyond a polished public façade. For the moment, she would keep her silence—hold the truth close where it couldn’t undercut the leverage she still possessed. But the illusion was gone. She saw Peter clearly at last, and she would not let him win.

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