The afternoon air in Darren Delgado's Las Vegas office was thick with the scent of fine leather and polished wood—a world away from the bright, chaotic energy of the campus Ophelia had just left. He sat behind his mahogany desk, posture a study in effortless power as sunlight fractured across his cufflinks. The numbers on his tablet blurred into irrelevance. Control demanded focus, but his mind was elsewhere. A constant, low thrum of possessive unease ran beneath his calm exterior. He told himself it was about discipline. About maintaining order.
It was a lie, and he knew it.
His phone buzzed softly on the desk.
An alert.
He glanced at the screen—his private bank. The first transaction was small: a few hundred dollars at a university bookstore. A quiet nod of approval. Good, he thought. She's using it for school.
Then came more.
A retail store in a mall. A clothing boutique. A casual restaurant. The amounts were modest almost insulting in their smallness—but the pattern wasn't.
