Chapter Three
Sebastian Maddox
Ray Chen thinks attention announces itself.
It doesn't.
Attention is quiet. Methodical. Patient.
By the time she steps out of the building, I already know which subway line she takes, which exit she prefers, and how long it takes her to walk from the station to her apartment. Not because I followed her—but because systems talk when you know how to listen.
Security badges. Camera angles. Transit patterns.
Information is a language.So is possession.
I don't leave the building when she does. I watch the feed from my phone, the city swallowing her small figure whole. She walks fast, head slightly down, one hand gripping her bag like the world might try to take it from her.
It might.
I make a call before she reaches the platform.
"Shadow her," I say calmly. "Distance. No contact."
"Yes, sir."
I hang up before he finishes the sentence.
People think power is loud. They think it demands. They think it forces itself into rooms and shouts its authority until everyone bows.
That's amateur behavior.
Real power doesn't need permission.It doesn't need applause.It doesn't need witnesses.
It just moves.
I lean back in the chair in my private office—no nameplate, no window facing the street—and open the personnel file I already know by heart.
Ray Chen.Twenty-two.No scandals. No debts worth noting.Overworked. Underpaid. Trusted.
Sunshine types always are.
They keep things running. They hold systems together with smiles and politeness, never realizing how much leverage that gives them. She knows schedules before executives do. Knows moods. Knows secrets people forget they've shared.
She's more dangerous than she looks.
Which is exactly why she needs to be watched.
Her apartment lights flick on in the feed. Safe. Home.
I send the text.
You got home safely.
Her response comes slower than I expected. That flicker of hesitation tells me everything I need to know. She's uneasy—but not panicked. Curious. Still trying to rationalize.
Good.
I don't tell her who I am.
Names create distance. Mystery closes it.
Sleep, Ray.
Using her name is intentional. A reminder. A line drawn softly around her life.
When she claims it's the wrong number, I almost smile.
I don't make mistakes.
I lock my phone and stand, shrugging out of my jacket. The building is empty now. The kind of silence that lets thoughts stretch.
Ray Chen smiled at a man who wasn't hers today.
She didn't know it yet. But that will change.
Tomorrow, the rules begin. Subtle at first. A shifted schedule. A reassigned task. Fewer men in her orbit. Less space to wander into danger without supervision.
She'll think it's coincidence.
She always will—until coincidence becomes routine.
I don't want to scare her. Fear makes people sloppy. Fear makes them lie.
Compliance is cleaner.
She'll tell herself I'm looking out for her. That it's flattering. That it feels safe.
And when she starts defending my presence—when she starts needing it—I'll know the language has begun to settle into her bones.
I glance once more at the live feed before shutting it down.
She's curled in bed, phone clutched loosely in her hand, brows furrowed even in sleep.
Soft things don't survive alone.
They survive because someone decides they belong somewhere protected.
Someone like me.