Someone's been watching me for three months, and I should be concerned.
Instead, I'm fascinated.
The first time I noticed it was in August. A blonde woman in the café across from my office building, her attention just a fraction too focused on the entrance. Most people wouldn't have caught it—the way her eyes tracked movement with mechanical precision, the careful angle of her phone when she pretended to scroll.
But I'm not most people.
I've spent my entire life learning to read rooms, to notice what others miss, to find the weakness in every defense. It's how I doubled my father's fortune in three years. It's how I've destroyed competitors who thought they were untouchable. It's how I've built an empire that spans six continents and generates revenue that exceeds the GDP of small nations.
You don't achieve that kind of power without knowing when you're being hunted.
The steam from my espresso curls into the air as I stand at the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, looking out over the Tribeca skyline. It's 5:47 AM. The city is just beginning to wake, but I've been awake for hours. Sleep is a luxury I've never needed much of—four hours, maybe five, and I'm sharper than most people are after eight.
My mind is occupied this morning. Not with the usual business concerns—those are manageable, predictable. No, I'm thinking about her.
The blonde. The brunette. The redhead. The woman in the corporate blazer. The girl in the coffee shop. The elegant figure at the hotel bar.
All the same person. All watching me.
She's good—I'll give her that. She changes her appearance, her locations, her patterns. She never lingers too long. Never make direct eye contact. Never does anything overtly suspicious.
A less observant target would never notice.
But I notice everything.
It's a gift my father drilled into me from childhood, back when he was still teaching instead of just demanding. "Power isn't about what you have, Theodore," he'd say, usually while destroying some business rival's life over dinner. "It's about what you see that others don't. Information is the only currency that matters."
He was right about that, at least. He's right about very little else.
I move away from the window, crossing the expanse of marble and steel that makes up my penthouse. Twenty-five hundred square feet of ruthlessly curated perfection—Baccarat crystal, Italian leather, original Rothko on the wall. Every surface gleaming, every angle precise. No clutter. No warmth. No weakness.
Exactly how I like it.
My home gym occupies the entire eastern wall, and I spend the next hour pushing my body through a punishing routine. Boxing. Weights. Core work that leaves most personal trainers gasping. Pain is clarifying. It sharpens focus, burns away distraction.
But even as I drive my fists into the heavy bag, I'm thinking about her.
Who is she? What does she want? Why me?
The most logical assumption is corporate espionage. I have competitors who would pay millions for inside information on Sinclair Empire's next moves. The Monroe family has been particularly aggressive lately, trying to undercut our bids in key markets.
But something about this doesn't fit that profile. Corporate spies are professional, detached. They gather intel and disappear.
This woman... there's something personal in the way she watches. Something hungry.
Something that mirrors the hunger I'm starting to feel when I think about her.
By 7:30 AM, I'm showered and dressed—a navy Tom Ford suit, custom-tailored to precise measurements. White shirt, no tie yet. I'll add that before I leave. Platinum Patek Philippe on my left wrist, the same watch my grandfather wore. Family legacy wrapped around my pulse.
I have fifteen minutes before my driver arrives, so I pull up my private security footage on my laptop. I've been compiling clips over the past few weeks—instances where I've caught glimpses of my mystery watcher.
There. August 12th. Coffee shop across from my office. Blonde wig, tortoiseshell glasses, cream-colored blazer. She sat for forty-three minutes, eyes never leaving the building entrance.
August 19th. Hotel lobby. Brunette this time, elegant updo, reading a magazine she never turned a page of. She tracked my movements through the lobby with the precision of someone trained.
September 3rd. Outside my penthouse building. Redhead in a sundress, pretending to window shop. But her attention was on the entrance, waiting for me to emerge.
And last week. Back in The Grand Sinclair lobby. Blonde again, different style. She was there when I arrived and left just seconds after my security guard started paying attention.
Professional. Careful. Determined.
And beautiful.
I freeze the footage on the clearest shot I have—her face turned slightly toward the camera, enough to see her profile. High cheekbones. Delicate bone structure. Full lips pressed into concentration.
Even disguised, even careful, she's striking.
I find myself staring at the image longer than necessary, studying the curve of her jaw, the elegant line of her neck.
Who are you?
The question has consumed more of my thoughts than any business deal in recent memory. I've run scenarios, analyzed patterns, and tried to determine her endgame.
Nothing makes complete sense.
If she wanted me dead, I'd be dead. Three months provides ample opportunity.
If she wanted money, she'd have made contact by now.
If she's corporate espionage, she's being extraordinarily patient.
Which means this is something else. Something I haven't figured out yet.
And that intrigues me more than it should.
I close the laptop as my phone buzzes—my driver is downstairs. But before I leave, I take one more look at the frozen image of her profile.
"Who are you?" I murmur to the screen. "And what do you want from me?"
Whatever it is, I'm going to find out.
---
The board meeting at 9 AM is exactly as tedious as I expected. Twelve men and three women, all at least twenty years my senior, all uncomfortable with the fact that I'm younger, smarter, and infinitely more powerful than they'll ever be.
My father sits at the head of the table—technically his seat, though we both know who really runs this company. He's fifty-eight, silver-haired, still handsome in that distinguished way that comes with age and money. Still ruthless, though not as sharp as he once was.
He's gotten comfortable. Complacent.
Fatal mistakes.
"The Tokyo acquisition is proceeding on schedule," I say, walking them through the presentation with brutal efficiency. "We'll have full control by Q1, which positions us perfectly for expansion into Southeast Asia."
"The cost seems excessive," ventures Patricia Moorewood, one of the board members who still hasn't learned that questioning my decisions is pointless.
I turn my gaze on her—the look that's been described in business journals as "glacial" and "terrifying." "The cost is an investment that will yield three hundred percent returns within eighteen months. Unless you have an analysis that contradicts mine, I suggest you trust the person who's tripled your portfolio value in three years."
She deflates immediately. They always do.
The meeting continues with discussions of quarterly projections, expansion strategies, and risk assessments. I participate with practiced ease, my mind operating on two levels—one focused on business, one occupied with thoughts of green eyes and careful disguises.
Yes, green eyes. I've seen them twice now—once reflected in a window when she got careless, once when she looked up too quickly in the hotel lobby before adjusting her glasses.
Distinctive. Bright green. Intelligent.
Beautiful.
"Theodore." My father's voice cuts through my thoughts. "The Monroe situation. What's your strategy?"
I refocus immediately. "Monroe Industries is making aggressive moves in Chicago and Los Angeles. They're trying to undercut our bids on premium properties. It's noise, but it needs to be addressed."
"How?"
"I'm preparing a comprehensive response that will remind them—and everyone else—why we don't have competitors. We have casualties."
A ripple of unease moves through the board. Good. Let them remember what happens to people who challenge Sinclair Empire.
My father nods, satisfied. "Good. The Monroe family has been a persistent irritation. Time to eliminate that problem permanently."
The meeting concludes at 11:00 AM sharp. As everyone files out, my father gestures for me to stay.
"Walk with me," he says. Not a request.
We take the private elevator to the executive floor, silence stretching between us. Richard Sinclair doesn't waste words on small talk.
"You've been different lately," he says finally, gazing out the window of his office. "Distracted. More intense than usual."
"I'm managing seventeen major initiatives across six continents. Intensity is required."
"It's more than that." He turns to study me. "I know that look. You're hunting something."
Perceptive. My father may be losing his edge, but he can still read me better than most.
"Several opportunities are developing," I say carefully. "I'm positioning us to capitalize."
"Opportunities." He's silent for a moment. "The charity gala is in two weeks. Your mother expects you to attend, make an appearance. Remind the vultures why we're the premier name in luxury hospitality."
"Of course."
"And bring a date. Someone photogenic. Someone who makes you look human." The directive is delivered with all the warmth of a business memo.
"I'll handle it."
"See that you do." He dismisses me with a wave, already turning back to his window.
I return to my own office—three floors up, twice the size, better views. Everything about it is a statement: I've surpassed my father in every measurable way.
But instead of diving into work, I find myself pulling up those security clips again. Watching her move through various locations with that practiced grace. The careful way she positions herself. The intelligence in every decision.
She's not just skilled. She's exceptional.
And she's made a critical error: she's made me curious.
I've spent years perfecting the art of control—over my emotions, my business, my life. I don't allow distractions. Don't permit anything to interfere with my focus.
But this woman—whoever she is—has managed to intrigue me in a way nothing has in years.
I want to know her name. I want to understand what drives her. I want to see her face without the disguises and the careful camouflage.
I want to catch her and discover what she's really after.
Wanting is becoming a problem.
---
By evening, I'm back in my penthouse, the city lights sprawling beneath me. I pour myself a whiskey—Macallan 25, neat—and settle into the leather chair by the window.
My laptop is open to more security footage. I've been reviewing it obsessively, I realize. Looking for patterns, for clues, for anything that might reveal who she is.
There. September 24th. She's outside my office building again, in a different disguise. But this time, she makes a mistake—adjusts her wig, and for just a fraction of a second, I catch a glimpse of what might be her real hair color.
Dark. Auburn, maybe, or brown.
I zoom in, enhance the image as much as possible. The quality degrades, but I can just make out the color at her hairline.
Auburn.
I file the information away, adding it to the mental profile I've been building.
Female. Five-six to five-eight. Athletic build. Green eyes. Auburn hair. Professional training in surveillance. Patient. Determined.
And after me specifically.
The question remains: why?
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
I stare at it for a moment, then open the message.
You should be more careful. The world is full of people watching.
My pulse quickens. It's her. Has to be.
I type back: I'm always careful. The question is: should you be?
No response.
I waited five minutes. Ten. Nothing.
But now I know something new: she's bold enough to make contact. Confident enough to taunt me.
And she has my private number, which very few people do.
The implications are troubling and thrilling in equal measure.
I pull up my contact list, looking for any breaches, any way someone could have obtained this number. Nothing obvious. Which means she's either very good at hacking, or she has access to information she shouldn't.
Either way, the game has escalated.
I return to the window, whiskey in hand, staring out at my empire. Somewhere in this city, a woman is watching me. Planning something. Working toward some goal that requires three months of careful surveillance.
And I'm going to find her.
Going to discover her identity, her motives, her endgame.
Going to catch her and make her understand that Theodore Sinclair is not prey—I'm the predator she should have avoided.
But first, I'm going to let her think she's winning.
The charity gala is in two weeks. High-profile events, crowds, media attention. If I were planning something, that's when I'd make my move.
And I'm betting she's thinking the same thing.
So I'll prepare. I'll set my trap. I'll create the perfect opportunity for her to reveal herself.
And then I'll have her exactly where I want her.
I smile at my reflection in the window—cold, calculated, dangerous.
"Come to the gala," I say softly. "Take your best shot. Let's see if you're as clever as you think you are."
Because here's what my mystery watcher doesn't understand: I've been playing games since I was old enough to walk. I've destroyed companies, ruined competitors, built an empire on the broken dreams of people who underestimated me.
And I've never lost.
She's skilled, yes. Determined, certainly. Bold enough to text me directly.
But I'm Theodore Sinclair.
And I always win.
I finish my whiskey and set down the glass with controlled precision. Two weeks until the gala. Two weeks to finalize my plans.
Two weeks until I finally meet the woman who's been haunting my thoughts.
The anticipation is exquisite.
Almost as exquisite as the moment will be when I finally have her caught, cornered, with nowhere left to run.
When she realizes that she was never the hunter.
She was always the prey.
And I'm about to show her exactly what that means.