Page 12 of The Tracker

Seeing that expression now—the same one Peter wore that night, smooth and self-assured—made her stomach knot. Whether he knew she’d finally seen through him or not didn’t matter.

He was still playing the game, but now, so was she.

“Evangeline, there you are. Where have you been?”

“Safe, no thanks to you. For the time being, Ms. Shaw is not available,” Dawson said, stepping in front of her like a wall of iron.

Peter blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll speak to her through legal. She’s under protection and doesn’t meet alone. With anyone.”

Peter’s jaw flexed. “This is insane. I’m her fiancé.”

“Maybe, but not as insane as getting shot at in an evening gown,” Dawson replied, voice flat.

Evangeline almost smiled. Almost.

She could picture her father’s concerned expression—the same look he’d worn at press conferences, quarterly earnings calls, even her mother’s memorial. It was his version of sincerity: practiced, polished, just credible enough to pass for real. But unlike Dawson, whose bluntness left no room for pretense, her father’s concern always came wrapped in optics and legacy. And she was tired of being a prop in someone else’s performance.

She straightened, meeting Peter’s gaze without flinching. “I can speak for myself, Peter. But for now, I’m following Dawson’s lead.”

Dawson didn’t budge. “She’s under my care. That means she doesn’t leave my sight.”

The meeting that followed was a blur of tension and wary stares. Margaret Tierney adjusted her pearls twice without speaking. David Langley dropped his pen and didn’t bother to retrieve it. Even Stanley Squire, usually unreadable, drummed his fingers against his legal pad with enough force to drawglances. One junior executive scribbled notes so furiously his hand shook. No one met Evangeline’s gaze for long. And every time Dawson shifted against the wall, backs straightened and conversations stuttered. He hadn’t said a word, but his presence threaded through the room like a live current.

Dawson stood against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. But she felt him. Every word she spoke, every breath she drew—he was there. Watching.

A board member cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Ms. Shaw, with all due respect, this situation is distracting from company priorities.”

“Agreed. Someone tried to kill her,” Dawson said from the wall, calm and lethal. “Until we eliminate the threat, you’ll have to excuse the distraction.”

Margaret, ever the traditionalist, spoke next. “Are we certain this isn’t being blown out of proportion? A text message and a cracked window?—”

Evangeline raised her hand, her tone glacial. “Would you like me to circulate the photo of the bullet lodged in the window frame three inches from my skull? Or the threat sent to my private number?”

Silence.

Peter leaned in, his smile tight. “This is exactly why I said you needed better PR management.”

Margaret murmured in agreement, but the room shifted again when Dawson straightened and stepped forward.

“You think this is about optics?” he asked, voice like steel. “This isn’t spin control—it’s a matter of survival.”

Peter’s smirk faltered. “With all due respect and no offense...”

“None taken,” Dawson cut in. “If your security people had done their damn jobs, she wouldn’t need me here now. Someonesent people to kill Ms. Shaw and when that didn't work at the gala, they chased her through the streets of San Antonio.”

A gasp fluttered through the room. A pen clattered to the table. One man cleared his throat and stared at his notes like they might save him.

Evangeline sat still, heart thundering. No one had ever defended her like that. Not when Peter publicly questioned her capabilities in front of the board last quarter. She’d smiled, lifted her chin, and bled in private—never once expecting anyone to step in.

Dawson didn’t just step in. He obliterated the space around her like a shield she hadn’t asked for but desperately needed. Not without strings or expectations.

And she wasn’t used to wanting anything that didn’t come with conditions, contracts, or careful calculations. But this—this raw, wordless defense—felt like something different. Something real. And real was dangerous.

Dawson took another step, slow and deliberate. “She doesn’t need carefully crafted narratives or polished talking points. She needs protection. That’s why I’m here.”

She didn’t look at him, but the energy in the room told her everything. Margaret’s lips parted slightly, as if she meant to speak but thought better of it. David’s hand froze mid-note, his pen suspended above the page. Whatever line Dawson had drawn, they all felt it—and none of them dared cross it. She saw it in the board’s faces—the subtle recalibration, the shift from dismissal to doubt.

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