CHAPTER FIVE

ELENA

I forced myself to keep walking, one foot in front of the other, struggling against the panic urge to spin around and check yet again. If I were being tailed, the last thing I needed was to act like some scared horror movie victim who trips over nothing and then gets captured.

I focused on walking quickly instead. My tiny apartment wasn't far. Once I was in, I would lock the doors, close the blinds, and have an unnecessary but completely justified breakdown.

By the time I reached my street, the unease had localized itself firmly in my chest. There was no sign of the man in black—or at least, he was no longer in plain sight. But that was even worse. What if he was still lurking, just waiting?

I reached my building and climbed the creaky stairs two steps at a time, my heart thudding in my ears. I nearly body-slammed my door shut behind me.

And then I did the only reasonable thing that I could think of.

I texted Sofia with shaking hands, telling her that it was an emergency and that she reach my apartment as soon as possible.

I collapsed onto my couch, buried my face in a pillow, and screamed.

A few minutes after that, A knock on my door made me jolt upright so fast I nearly threw my backbone out of my body.

Oh, great, so this is how I die.

Sofia's voice halted that train of thought, at least. "Elena? You alive in there, or do I have to break in?"

I got to my feet and opened the door, scowling. "You'd break in?"

She smiled. "With enough motivation." Her smile fell when she caught sight of me. "Whoa. You look like you've seen a ghost. Did Alexander already fire you? Because I was ready to throw a party."

I groaned. "No, but thanks for the vote of confidence."

She walked past me, kicking off her shoes as if she lived here. "Okay, spill. What happened?"

I hesitated. Was I going to tell her about the man? The strange feeling I got?

She must have seen me hesitate because she looked at me. "Elena, if you don't get on with it, I promise I will make up my own story, and believe me, my story is much more dramatic."

I sighed and sat down, hugging myself. "I don't know. Something just feels…off."

She raised an eyebrow. "Well, yeah. You work for Alexander 'Human Ice Sculpture' Moretti. 'Off' is probably his entire personality."

I shook my head. "It's not just him. I feel like someone's watching me. And don't say I'm being paranoid."

Sofia’s teasing expression softened slightly. "Okay, I won't. But maybe you're just tense? I mean, this is the first real break you've gotten in... forever."

I let out a humorless chuckle. "Terrific. Now my stress level has advanced to include hallucinations."

She grinned. "You should upgrade to Paranoia Deluxe. Includes a free tin foil hat."

I shook my head. "Thanks for the help.".

She waved a dismissive hand. “That’s what I’m here for.” Then she pointed at the folder. “So, I am guessing you have not started painting yet?”

I hesitated before slowly opening it again. The sketches were still there—the hotel mural, the designs, and that eerily familiar unfinished painting.

I ran my fingers over the image of the woman with her back turned, the flowing gown cascading like ink.

Something about it stirred something deep in me.

Sofia leaned in. “You should start on it.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You’re overthinking. Your brain is obviously trying to kill you, so why not let your hands take over for a bit? Just… paint. Get it out of your system.”

I hesitated. Painting was my escape. My way of breathing when the world felt suffocating. Maybe she had a point.

Hours later, after Sofia left, I was in front of my canvas, brush in hand, letting emotions bleed onto the fabric.

My worries melted away with each stroke—Alexander's pride, the mystery of this project, the lingering paranoia of being watched.

I did not think. I just let it flow.

Time ceased to have any meaning. The brushstrokes of my painting and my steady breathing were the only things to be heard in my tiny apartment. The colors swirled and mixed, the image forming before me as if it had been waiting to be painted.

And then…

A voice behind me.

"That's… actually impressive.”

I turned so fast I nearly knocked the easel over. My heart jumped straight into my throat.

Alexander.

In my apartment.

I gaped at him. "What the—how'd you get in here?!"

He had the nerve to look completely unbothered. "The door was open."

I scowled. "No, it wasn't."

He shrugged. "It is now."

I breathed in sharply. "So breaking and entering is just part of your daily routine?"

He didn't say anything, stepping closer to the painting. I instinctively stepped in front of it, but too slowly.

He'd already seen it.

His eyes remained on the canvas, expression unreadable.

I folded my arms. "So? What now? Are you going to tell me it's 'decent' again?"

He didn't grin. Didn't joke. For once, he just looked… thoughtful.

"You started this today?" His voice wasn't as stern and sharp as usual.

I hesitated before I nodded.

He exhaled through his nose, almost like he was annoyed. But not at me—at something else.

"You get it." His gaze moved from the painting to me. "The brushstrokes. The emotion. You actually get it."

My eyes blinked. Was that… a compliment? From Alexander Moretti?

I had no time to ponder before he took a step back, his mask slipping back into place. "I'll see you at the hotel tomorrow. Don't be late."

And with that, he turned to leave.

But as he left, he paused in the doorway and glanced back.

"Lock your doors, Elena."

And then he was gone.

Leaving me standing there, heart racing in my chest, staring at my half-finished painting, wondering why Alexander Moretti suddenly looked like a man with dark secrets.

That night, I did lock my doors.

I double-checked the windows. Closed the curtains. Tried to tell myself I was being paranoid.

But deep down…

I knew better.

Because long after I had turned off the lights and gotten into bed, I had the distinct feeling that I was still being watched.

And this time around, they weren't in my imagination.