After the attempt, nothing felt private anymore.
The penthouse no longer breathed like a home. It watched like a sentry—lights dimmed but never dark, curtains half-drawn, doors locked in quiet succession. Security multiplied overnight, men appearing where there had once been empty space, their footsteps too loud, their confidence too obvious.
Alexandra trusted none of them.
She moved through the apartment methodically, changing things that didn't look like they needed changing. A chair shifted slightly. A lamp rotated. A decorative sculpture relocated closer to the wall.
Andre noticed.
"You're rearranging my life," he said mildly from the sofa, watching her slide a side table a few inches to the left.
"I'm keeping it," she replied without looking at him.
He studied the room, then her. "That table's been there for years."
"Then everyone knows where it is," she said. "Which makes it useless."
He considered that, then nodded once. He didn't argue. That surprised her more than resistance would have.
She adjusted lighting next—not too bright, not dim. Shadows created lies; harsh light created blind spots. Balance mattered.
Andre stood and rolled his sleeves up, an unconscious gesture. "You don't trust my people."
"I don't trust anyone who wasn't here last night," Alexandra replied. "Including you."
His mouth twitched, not offended. "Fair."
They existed like that for the rest of the afternoon—parallel, cautious. He worked. She watched. Their proximity felt unnatural, like standing too close to a fault line you could feel but not see.
Evening crept in without ceremony.
They ended up eating together by accident more than intention. Andre sat at the kitchen counter, plate untouched. Alexandra leaned against the far wall, eyes moving constantly—glass reflections, shadows, angles.
"You always eat like this?" Andre asked eventually.
"Like what?"
"Ready to disappear."
She shrugged. "Old habit."
He hesitated, then said, "You don't have to hover."
She finally looked at him. "You don't get to decide that yet."
Something passed between them then—not hostility, not trust. Recognition.
Later, the penthouse settled into an uneasy quiet. Security reports murmured through earpieces. The city outside softened into distant light.
That was when Alexandra felt it.
Not pressure.
Absence.
She froze mid-step.
The hum of electronics seemed wrong. Too even. Too empty.
Her hand slid instinctively toward the knife in her boot.
"Lights," she whispered.
Andre looked up. "What—"
She cut the lights herself.
Darkness swallowed the room, broken only by the city glow beyond the glass.
"Stay where you are," she murmured.
She moved soundlessly, every step calculated. The service hallway loomed ahead—normally ignored, usually empty.
Tonight, it wasn't.
A shape shifted.
Alexandra closed the distance in seconds.
The intruder was young. Too young. His movements were sloppy, his breath sharp with panic. She disarmed him easily, twisting his arm and driving him to the floor before he could shout.
"Who sent you?" she demanded.
"I—I didn't know," he stammered. "I was paid. Just to plant something."
Andre appeared behind her, tension coiled tight. "Alexandra—"
"Stay back."
She searched the intruder quickly, efficiently. Found the device taped inside his jacket lining.
Not a bomb.
A tracker.
Her jaw tightened.
"They're mapping your patterns," she said. "Learning when you relax. When you stop watching."
Andre swallowed. "Which means…"
"They won't rush again."
Security flooded the hallway moments later. Alexandra handed the intruder over without ceremony, watching until the doors closed behind them.
When the penthouse finally stilled again, she leaned back against the wall, fatigue settling into her bones.
Andre didn't look away from her.
"You could've let him go," he said quietly. "It would've been easier."
"Easy gets you killed."
He stepped closer, voice lower. "Why do you do this?"
She stiffened. "Because I'm paid to."
"That's not true," he said. "You could've walked after last night."
Alexandra looked at him then, something guarded flickering across her face. "Some debts don't expire."
Andre studied her carefully. "And some people never forgive themselves."
The words landed closer to home than he probably realized.
"I'm glad it was you," he said after a pause.
She scoffed softly. "Don't be."
"Why?"
"People like me," she said, voice steady but eyes dark, "come with consequences."
Outside, the city continued its indifferent pulse.
And Alexandra realized—with a quiet, unsettling clarity—that this was no longer just a job.
It was proximity.
And proximity was dangerous.