Page 61 of Fractured Devotion
And I feel it in my chest. The same ache that hits every time she leaves without knowing I’m watching.
This time, I’m not letting her get far without me. The traffic cam shows the moment her building door opens a few minutes later. She steps out, keys in one hand, pulling her coat tighter. She hesitates on the threshold, her eyes darting down the street.
There’s no sign of the van.
Still, she lingers.
Then she starts walking.
I don’t wait. I grab my jacket, kill the tablet screen, and leave my apartment. The time for distance is over.
If she’s moving, I need to be close.
The rest of the day unfolds like a series of precise cuts—intentional, surgical, and deep enough to matter.
By the time I arrive at Miramont, she’s already there. I see her in the east hallway through the security feed. Her gait is sharp, but something in her posture betrays exhaustion.
I make no effort to cross paths. Not yet. She needs to feel the shift before she sees it.
Instead, I step into my office, adjust the monitors, and spend the next three hours doing nothing that looks suspicious. Things like data collection and baseline recalibrations, all the surface-level fluff that keeps Rourke satisfied and the interns confused.
Except I don’t stop watching.
From a side terminal, I access passive hallway feeds. She’s walking faster today, as if motion itself could shake something loose. She stops once, near Lab 3, and touches the wall like it might tell her something.
I close the feed. That look in her eyes will haunt me if I watch it too long.
Around 5 p.m., I make my move.
The hallway near the backup diagnostics bay is quiet, and I wait until she’s finished logging out of her terminal. I time it to the second. When she rounds the corner, I’m already there.
“Dr. Varon.”
She stops, startled just slightly, her eyes narrowing before softening. “Mr. Lorran.”
I smile, subtle and controlled. “Didn’t think I’d catch you before close,” I say.
“Was about to head out.”
I fall into step beside her as we move toward the exit.
“Sorry if this feels sudden, but I couldn’t help wondering. Someone mentioned you live near the bakery district. I think we might be neighbors and didn’t even know it.”
Celeste gives a half-smile, small and slow. “That bakery gets mentioned too often for its own good.”
I chuckle lightly. “Maybe it’s worth the hype. Or maybe it’s just convenient gossip material.”
“It’s decent. Their tea is horrible, though,” she replies, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Can’t explain why I still order it sometimes.”
“Noted,” I say. “I’ll stick with the coffee.”
A silence stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. There’s something in the way her gaze lingers on me now. It’s less guarded, maybe curious.
“So,” she says, her voice a smooth drawl, each word placed with care, “are you just making conversation, or are you warning me about bad pastry spots now?”
“Actually,” I begin, my voice steady but measured. “I’ve been noticing a van around the area. It’s been raising my suspicion, more like it’s making me feel like I’m being watched. I spotted it again this morning. It looked like the same model, same driver.”
Her pace falters for a fraction of a second, and her brows pinch. Then, guarded, she replies, “You noticed it too.”
