Westley swiped the screen open, but instead of a name and address, his eyes met a report that made his blood run cold.
"Mr President, the plate number is a high-quality counterfeit... a complete fake. It doesn't exist in any official registry."
Westley's grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. A fake plate meant this wasn't just a curious fan or a clumsy photographer. This was a professional stalker. Someone who had planned this, someone who knew exactly how to stay off the grid.
"A fake?" Westley hissed, the word dripping with venom.
He looked up at the Glamour Cosmetics building, his heart hammering against his ribs. Evie was in there, thinking she was safe, while a nameless, untraceable shadow was circling her. Thinking about this made his blood boil.
Wordlessly, he quickly dialed a private number.
