Three days passed, and Taryn still hadn't gone home. She said she didn't mean to stay more than one night. Then one night became two. Then three. No suitcase. No toothbrush of her own.
Just Taryn, curled in Zane's too-large shirts and wandering his penthouse barefoot like she was still deciding whether to claim it or vanish. He didn't ask questions. He didn't demand answers.
He just let her be.
In the mornings, she drank her coffee black and sat by the windows. In the evenings, they talked, about music, cities they'd never seen, movies they loved and people they hated. She hadn't told him much about her past, but Zane knew better than to pry.
Every story she didn't tell him spoke volumes. But underneath the quiet, he noticed the way her body still tensed when the elevator dinged. How she always checked the lock twice. How she slept lightly, like someone expecting to be shaken awake.
Zane recognized survival when he saw it. He just didn't know what had threatened her. He found himself wishing he could have been there to eliminate the threat.
On the third night, Harris, his head of private security, requested a meeting.
Zane took it in his home office, glass walls, sleek wood, zero distractions. Harris was a former Marine, clean-cut and steady-eye, the kind of man who noticed things before they happened.
"We've picked up a pattern," Harris said, sliding a tablet across the desk.
Zane leaned forward. The screen showed surveillance footage from the street below. Same black van, circling the block. Once on Monday night. Again Tuesday. Twice on Wednesday.
Same plates. No headlights. No obvious loitering. Just… lurking.
"Unmarked. No ride-share logs," Harris added. "And no registered business decal. They're making a point not to park."
Zane frowned. "Windows tinted?"
"Deep. State-level illegal."
Zane said nothing for a moment. Then, "Do you think it's me, or her?"
"Could be either," Harris said. "Could be both."
Zane tapped a knuckle against the desk. "Add another man to the rotation downstairs. Quietly."
"Already done."
Harris hesitated.
"There's more."
Zane looked up.
"There was a body found early this morning. Club called Obsidian, other side of town." Harris shook his head. "It's not good."
Zane narrowed his eyes. "Obsidian's a dive."
"Exactly," Harris said. "That's why this part stood out."
He pulled out a folded photo and laid it flat on the desk. Zane's breath hitched. The woman in the picture was a brunette, young, dressed in a wedding gown. She was posed like a doll on the club's front steps. Pale arms folded. Makeup smeared into an expression that mimicked peace. Around her shoulders was a bouquet of red roses.
Tucked into the bouquet was a photo. What Harris told him next made his blood run cold.
A photo of him.
It wasn't even a flattering photo. One of the press shots from a property ribbon-cutting. He remembered the suit, and the flash from the camera, the way it had made his migraine even worse.
The implications hit him like a gut punch. "Cause of death?" he asked, voice flat.
"Strangulation. No sign of sexual assault. Clean scene. No prints. No ID on the vic yet, but…" Harris cleared his throat. "The setup wasn't random. It was staged. And it was meant for you."
Zane leaned back in his chair, blood suddenly hot. "I want everything on this," he said. "Full workup on the van. Club security footage. Traffic cams. Every unsolved assault in a five-mile radius."
"You think it's connected to the girl you brought home?" Harris asked.
Zane didn't answer immediately. "I think someone wanted her," he said finally. "And when they couldn't have her, they found a replacement."
Taryn found him on the balcony an hour later, nursing his second whiskey, knuckles white around the glass.
She stepped up behind him, barefoot and wearing one of his shirts again. Her hair was pulled into a lazy knot, and her eyes were already searching his face.
"You okay?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away. Just stared at the skyline like it might rearrange itself into something he could control. He hadn't expected something like this. Something life and death. "There was a murder," he said finally.
That got her attention. "Where?"
"A club. Other side of town. Someone posed the body. Left a picture of me in the flowers."
Taryn stiffened.
He turned to look at her. "You know anything about that?"
"No," she said, voice immediate, too quick. But the color drained from her cheeks.
"Taryn."
She wrapped her arms around herself. "I've… felt something off the last few weeks. Even before we met. Like someone watching. I thought it was just paranoia. Girls at the club get creepy guys all the time."
"This wasn't a creep," Zane said. "This was a message."
She didn't speak. Zane crossed the distance between them slowly. He didn't touch her.
"I think someone's been following you. And I think when you didn't show up for work—when you came here—they changed targets."
Her hands shook now. She folded them behind her back. "I never told anyone where you lived," she said.
"I know. It wouldn't be hard for someone to find out. Taryn, this isn't your fault."
"I just needed somewhere quiet," she whispered. "I didn't mean to bring trouble."
"You didn't," he said. "It followed you. That's different."
Taryn turned her face away, blinking fast. " I should go," she said softly.
"No," Zane said. Firm. Final.
She looked up.
"You stay," he said. "Until we figure this out."
Her voice broke when she replied.
"I don't want anyone else to die because of me."
He took her hands in his, slowly, deliberately.
"That girl didn't die because of you. She died because of him. Whoever he is. And we're going to find him." The guy had underestimated Zane, his security team, and that had been a mistake.
Taryn nodded, barely.
Then she leaned into him. Let her body fall against his chest, like she'd been holding something heavy for too long and finally let it drop. He held her there, one hand cradling the back of her head.
And in the quiet, he felt it. He felt the shift. They weren't playing anymore.
This wasn't just sex or flirtation or games. They were in it now.
And someone was watching.
Someone who wouldn't stop, someone who had to be stopped.