The Photos

The photos spread across the desk like a horror film storyboard.

My bedroom. The kitchen. The bathroom, that one's slightly out of focus, shot through foggy glass. And the worst: me sleeping, sheets twisted around my legs, one arm flung across the pillow where another person should have been.

The man across from me studies each image without flinching.

Martinelli Security Solutions. The office is clean and professional, exposed brick walls, industrial lighting, the kind of aesthetic that costs money to look effortless. The man matches it: dark clothes, controlled movements, a face that gives nothing away.

"When did these start arriving?" His voice is low, steady. Like we're discussing weather instead of the systematic violation of my privacy.

"Six months ago." I keep my own voice flat. Professional. I will not fall apart in front of a stranger. "The first ones were taken from outside. Street shots. My building. Me leaving for work."

"And these?" He taps the bedroom photo.

"Last month. He got inside."

His jaw tightens. The first crack in that perfect composure.

"Police?"

"Useless." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "I've filed five reports. They say without a direct threat, without knowing who it is, their hands are tied."

"And yet you're here."

"Three days ago, someone broke my windows." I pull out my phone, show him the photos I took after: jagged glass scattered across my living room floor, the cold November wind howling through the gaps. "The police suggested I might have done it myself. For attention."

Something dark flickers across his expression.

"They didn't say that to me," I clarify. "They said it to the responding officer. I heard them laughing."

Silence.

He leans back in his chair. Gray eyes assess me with an intensity that should be uncomfortable but somehow isn't.

"Aria De Luca. Architect. You design commercial buildings, mostly, the Morrison Tower renovation, the Lakeside Medical Center. You live alone in a high-rise downtown. Twenty-third floor. No current romantic partner. Parents deceased. One brother in California."

My stomach drops.

"How do you know that?"

"I do my research before taking meetings." He doesn't apologize. "You're successful, independent, and careful. The kind of woman who wouldn't hire protection unless she'd exhausted every other option."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's an observation." He stands, moves to the window. The city spreads below us, glass and steel and millions of anonymous lives. "The person following you isn't amateur. These photos required access, planning, patience. He's not going to stop because you installed better locks."

"I know."

"He's probably watching right now. Saw you enter this building."

"I know that too."

He turns to face me.

"What do you want, Ms. De Luca?"

The question hangs between us.

What do I want?

I want to stop checking over my shoulder every time I leave my apartment. Want to sleep through the night without waking at every creak of the building settling. Want to stop feeling like prey.

"I want to feel safe," I say. "In my own home. In my own life."

"That's not specific enough."

"Fine." I meet his gaze. "I want whoever's doing this caught and stopped. I want my life back. I want..." My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it. "I want one night where I don't wake up terrified."

He's quiet for a long moment.

Then he crosses back to the desk. Picks up the photos. Studies them with an intensity that suggests he's cataloging details I wouldn't even notice.

"I'll take the case."

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by suspicion.

"Just like that? You haven't told me your rates, your process, anything..."

"I'll move into your apartment tomorrow." He says it like it's obvious. Like men move into my home every day. "Round-the-clock protection until we identify and neutralize the threat."

"Move in?"

"You said you wanted to feel safe. Safe means not being alone." His expression doesn't change. "I have a team, but for this, I'll handle it personally."

"Why?"

The question surprises him. Good. I like having the upper hand occasionally.

"Because whoever's doing this is sophisticated." He slides the photos back across the desk. "This level of access, this patience, it's not a random obsession. It's organized. Planned. And that makes it interesting."

"I'm glad my terror is intellectually stimulating."

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile.

"You're sharp, Ms. De Luca. I like that." He extends his hand. "Rocco Martinelli. I'll see you tomorrow."

I shake it.

His grip is warm, firm, controlled. The hand of a man who knows exactly how much force to apply and when.

"Is Martinelli Security a family business?"

"Something like that."

"That's not an answer."

"No." He releases my hand. "It's not."

I should push harder. Should demand specifics, references, a background check of my own.

Instead, I gather my things and leave.

Because the truth is, I'm out of options. The police won't help. My friends are sympathetic but powerless. And last night, I found another photo slipped under my door, me in the shower, taken through the frosted glass.

Whoever this man is, he's getting closer.

And Rocco Martinelli is the first person who's looked at those photos and seen something other than a woman losing her mind.

Tomorrow, a stranger moves into my home.

God help me, that actually sounds like an improvement.