Page 284 of Rosetti Family New York
She pours a glass, the burgundy liquid catching the light. She takes a sip, and her shoulders relax for the first time in hours. The wine works its magic.
The living room camera shows her settling onto the bed with grace, holding the wine glass with both hands. She's beautiful in the monitor's glow, dark hair falling in a bob above her shoulders, silk clinging to her body perfectly. But she seems fragile now, a brittleness that wasn't there before.
Running has worn her down. Not just physically, but spiritually. She looks like someone carrying secrets too heavy for one person.
I want to comfort her. I want to reach through the screen and hold her, to remind her what it felt like not to face the world's cruelty alone. But the surveillance glass is a one-way mirror, and all I can do is watch and wish and plan how to turn this watching into reality.
She talks to herself sometimes, a habit I've seen in different surveillance feeds from different cities. Tonight is no different. Her lips move silently as she looks at her reflection in the dark window, practicing conversations for imaginary audiences.
"You can't keep running forever," she tells her reflection, her voice barely audible even with enhanced audio. "Sooner or later, you have to face what you left behind."
The words hit hard. She's thinking about me, about us, about the choice that ruined everything we built together. But there's exhaustion in her voice, the kind that comes from a fight you're tired of winning.
Good. Exhaustion makes people reckless. It makes them seek comfort over safety, warmth over independence. It makes them vulnerable to those who know how to wait.
She goes through her nighttime routine with precise movements: washing her face with pricey products that can't hide the dark circles under her eyes, brushing her teeth carefully, as if these small habits give her a sense of control. In the mirror, she seems like a shadow of herself. Still beautiful, but burdened by things she can't escape.
The bedroom camera shows her slipping under Egyptian cotton sheets, wearing silk pajamas that cover too much and reveal too little. Instead of sleeping, she picks up her phone, scrolling through contacts.
My name is still there. I catch a glimpse of "Emilio" in her contact list before she scrolls past, quickly and guiltily, like touching a wound she can't stop poking. Knowing I'm still in her personal space gives me a dark satisfaction.
She puts the phone down and lies there, but sleep doesn't come. Instead, she stares at the ceiling intensely, thinking through difficult choices. Her breathing stays shallow and fast, like prey aware the predator is near but unable to see where he hides.
Smart girl. She should be afraid.
Through the thermal imaging overlay, I watch her body temperature change with stress, elevated pulse, uneven breathing, the physical signs of a woman who knows she's being hunted but hasn't realized how close the hunter is.
Close enough to count her heartbeats. Close enough to see every expression she makes in private moments. Close enough to change her reality with a few keystrokes while she remains unaware of the strings controlling her world.
She shivers even though the temperature is perfect, pulling the blankets up higher. The movement is automatic, the kind that shows a deep-down awareness she's not alone, sensing something she can't see. Good. Fear mixed with mystery is a powerful mix.
My phone buzzes with a notification: her heart rate has jumped to 110 BPM. The stress monitors I've placed in the hotel's wellness system are advanced. Every physical reaction recorded, every emotion measured, every moment of vulnerability noted for the future.
The woman who left my bed without a word is now an open book of biometric data and behavior analysis. I know when she's scared, when she's excited, and when she's thinking of things she'd rather forget. The surveillance creates a profile of her mind more intimate than any physical exam.
She suddenly sits up, eyes scanning the room with sharp awareness. Something has triggered her instincts. Not a sound or movement, but the sense of being watched. Her hand slides under the mattress, finding the weapon I know she keeps there.
"I know someone's watching," she says to the empty room, her voice clear across enhanced audio pickups. "I can feel you."
Her direct words make my heart pound. She realizes her privacy is a myth. That someone, somewhere, sees everything she does, catalogues every breath, learns her patterns with careful precision.
She's right, of course. But knowing it and proving it are different, and I've ensured my presence is invisible to anyone without my skills.
She moves to the window, studying the reflections with the focus of someone searching for ghosts. Her silk robe falls open a bit, revealing the curve of her breast, the shadow between her thighs, making my mouth dry with desire.
Beautiful. Even when she's paranoid and armed, she’s the most captivating thing I've ever seen. The way she moves with deadly grace, the intelligence that sharpens her face, the stubborn bravery that’s kept her alive when others would have been gone long ago. Mine. She was mine, and she will be mine again, whether she agrees or not.
Room service arrives at 3:42 AM. Not ordered, not requested, but perfectly timed for when she’s more likely to need comfort than food. Chamomile tea and shortbread cookies, the combination she used to ask for when stress made it hard for her to sleep.
She takes the tray with confusion instead of suspicion, listening to the server's explanation about "complimentary evening service for valued guests" as if it could be a threat. But the tea is what she needs, and need outweighs caution when she’s too tired.
"Thank you," she tells the server, though her eyes wander to where cameras might be hidden. Not toward the hotel staff, but to whoever might be watching secretly. To me.
The tea works its calming magic, the chamomile and honey creating a gentle drowsiness that makes her feel less on edge. She snuggles under the covers with the grace that’s haunted my dreams, finally setting her phone aside as the chemistry overcomes her anxiety.
Her breathing evens out into the rhythm I’ve memorized from countless nights beside her. But even in sleep, she’s not peaceful. One hand stays near the hidden weapon, the other curls into a fist as if she’s fighting battles in dreams I can’t reach. Yet.
I stay at my monitors, watching over her sleep with technological care. As needed, I make adjustments—temperature, lighting, even the barely audible ambient sound system that hides the building’s noises. Creating perfect conditions for the kind of sleep she deserves.
