Page 13 of Fractured Loyalties
And tonight, it comes right on time.
I can’t hear things happening in there directly—there’s no audio surveillance inside her apartment. But the old neighbor upstairs had a hallway camera still wired to a remote cloud account. I secured access weeks ago, just in case. Through those hallway mics, faint and often distorted, I catch enough.
I lean back in the seat and pull out my tablet. Not for entertainment. This screen doesn’t flash news or music. It holdsmaps. Schedules. Network taps. And the newest feed from the contractor I paid too much to get what I asked for.
Not illegal. Not exactly. But it skirts the edge, and I’m good at balancing there.
The image is paused. A man—Caleb—on a corner downtown, alone, just standing in the rain like he forgot where he was going. The timestamp is recent. Hours recent.
I scrub forward. He walks into a liquor store. Leaves with a paper bag. Doesn’t look up once.
Still here. Still circling.
I check another file—one Lydia didn’t authorize. Phone records. Location pings. Not Mara’s. Caleb’s.
She doesn’t know how close he’s come. How often. Twice within four blocks of her apartment. Once on the street she walks to work. That last one was a week ago.
I tap the screen off.
I know what I have to do. I’ve always known. But it’s no longer about strategy. Not only.
It’s about something that crawls beneath my skin. Something I thought I’d severed years ago.
Possession? Yes. Protection? Also true.
But this isn’t just about her anymore.
It’s about what I become if I don’t act.
I stay there a while longer, engine silent, tablet dark in my lap. Mara’s apartment stays quiet, still veiled in the hush of manufactured safety. I let the stillness stretch until the edges fray.
Then I finally drive off.
The city folds back around me—traffic thinned, storefronts shuttered, streetlights blinking red through empty intersections. The tires barely whisper on the road. I take the familiar turns home on instinct.
When I reach the underground garage beneath my building, I cut the engine and sit again for a beat, palms resting against the wheel. I tell myself it’s to decompress. I know it’s a lie.
Upstairs, the penthouse greets me in silence. Lights on a timer cast a soft perimeter glow. Everything is pristine. Exactly how I left it.
I don’t pour a drink. Don’t check the feeds again.
I toe off my shoes with practiced precision, each movement deliberate. I loosen my cufflinks, place them in the dish by the entryway, then unbutton my shirt one measured notch at a time. No lights on. I don't need them. I know this space like I know the lines in her face—intimately, obsessively. The routine is grounding. Controlled. Stripping down becomes a silent ritual, not of comfort, but reset. The bedroom is cool, the sheets crisp.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling.
Planning.
Tomorrow starts early.
At precisely 5:02 a.m., I wake without an alarm. I never need one. My body is trained. Conditioned. The penthouse remains hushed as I move through my routine—shower, shave, steam-pressed suit. Dark navy today. Tighter weave. Commanding, but not loud.
In the kitchen, I prepare a protein shake. Measured to the gram. No deviations. No indulgences.
The home assistant—separate from the one at the office—arrives at 6:00 a.m. sharp, as she does every weekday. She’s tasked with maintaining the penthouse’s exacting order: overseeing cleanings, managing deliveries, and coordinating household needs.
Today she brings the day’s folders and briefing summaries as well, per standing instruction. She doesn’t knock anymore. Just enters with the code I programmed into her access badge—temporary, renewable weekly.
By 7:30, I’m at the office downtown. Eighteenth floor. Glass walls. Sleek black leather and minimalist chrome. A room designed to make everyone else feel slightly lesser.
