Page 297 of Rosetti Family New York
"How could you possibly—"
"I've been tracking your credit cards, your phones, your digital footprints since the night you left." His voice is calm and sure. "Every purchase, every location, every change in your usual patterns. The tea was unusual. It showed something had changed."
The extent of his surveillance is frightening, yet I find it fascinating. I lean in, drawn to how thoroughly he's studied my life.
"Paris," I whisper, wanting to test how much he knows.
"Which time?" His smile is sharp. "The job interview at Galerie Margot, where you wore the black Chanel suit and lied about your references? Or later, when you came back to steal the Degas?"
My coffee cup shakes against the saucer. "I was just running surveillance. But… hang on… You know about the theft?"
"I know about all of them. Zurich, Tokyo, that issue in Monaco." His fingers keep typing, bringing up evidence of crimes I thought were hidden. "You're brilliant at it, by the way. The art forgery work especially. You've gotten much better since we were together."
The way he talks about my criminal activities, not judging but appreciating, is dizzying. "You've been watching me commit felonies and did nothing?"
"I've been watching you survive," he gently corrects. "Using the skills I helped you develop to stay alive in a world that wanted you gone. I'm proud of you."
His words hit me hard, changing what I thought I knew about my secret life. Not hidden from him but seen and admired from afar by the man I thought I'd left behind.
"The apartment in Prague," I say, my voice a whisper.
"Karlova Street. Third floor, facing the square. You kept the curtains closed for six weeks because the view reminded you of something painful." His eyes soften a bit. "You were thinking about me."
I was. Every morning, the church bells would ring, and I'd remember Sunday mornings with him, how he'd complain about the noise while holding me close. The link he's made, between closed curtains and avoiding emotions, hits too close to home.
"The morning runs," I keep probing, trying to grasp the full picture.
"Five kilometers, always the same path by the river. You started that routine after the nightmares worsened." He looks worried. "You were sleeping less than four hours a night. I was concerned."
"Concerned enough to act?"
"Concerned enough to get the apartment owner to install better locks. And yes, I might have anonymously reported the suspicious men hanging around your building to the local authorities."
The truth hits hard. "You protected me. From a distance."
"I protected you however I could." His voice is thick with barely held-back emotion. "Even if it meant staying away."
The screens surrounding us flash with years of gathered data—a digital love letter made of surveillance and care. Each file marks a moment he observed from afar, learned something new, and adjusted his understanding of who I had become.
"There's more," he says softly, fingers pausing over keys that could uncover even deeper truths. "But you might not like what you see."
"Show me everything."
He opens a file that makes my stomach twist with recognition: detailed psychological profiles analyzing my behavior, stress reactions, relationship history. Not just facts, but interpretation. Insights drawn from watching me live unaware of being observed.
"You bite your lip when calculating escape routes," he reads from extensive notes. "You touch your throat when lying, but only about emotions, never facts. You laugh differently when genuinely amused versus socially obligated. You've never had an orgasm with anyone else."
His last observation makes my cheeks burn. "You can't possibly know that."
"Body language. Vocal patterns. The way you respond to stimuli." His voice drops to that tone that makes my heart race despite everything. "I know how you look when you come, Mara. What sounds you make, how your breathing changes. I've seen you fake it with other men."
"You watched me with other men."
"I watched you survive by any means necessary," he corrects, something dark flickering in his gray eyes. "And hated every second of it."
Was that a threat? Or a confession? Not just watching, but emotional pain. Seeing the woman he loved with others, noting her reactions, learning to tell truth from performance in her most private moments.
"The gift," I whisper, recalling something that still tightens my chest. "In Tokyo. The vintage perfume."
