Read Chapter 16: The Note

The theatre smelled of dust, stale coffee, and ambition. Evelyn stood center stage, script in hand, while the director, a wiry man named Gareth, paced the empty seats like a caged animal. Oliver leaned against the proscenium, watching her with an intensity that felt less like admiration and more like study.

"Again, Evelyn. From 'I cannot breathe the air they breathe.'"

She nodded, drawing herself up. The line was from *The Duchess of Devizes*, her last West End triumph before the world had collapsed into shadows and roses. The words felt like ash in her mouth now.

"I cannot breathe the air they breathe—"

A cough from the wings. Marcus. He stood in the darkness between the black drapes, arms crossed, eyes scanning the auditorium with the mechanical regularity of a lighthouse beam. He'd been doing that all week. Scanning. Listening. Cataloguing.

Evelyn paused, losing the thread.

"Sorry. Give me a moment."

Gareth waved a hand. "Five minutes. Oliver, help her with the blocking on act two, scene three."

Oliver pushed off the pillar with an easy grin. "My pleasure."

Marcus moved before Oliver took two steps. He crossed the stage in three long strides, his hand brushing Evelyn's elbow—a gesture that looked casual but felt like a claim.

"We need to talk."

Oliver's grin flickered. "Everything alright?"

"Fine," Evelyn said, letting Marcus guide her toward the wings. "Just—security thing. Give us two minutes."

Oliver's eyes tracked them, something unreadable in his gaze. He raised both hands in surrender. "Take your time."

In the wings, Marcus's voice dropped to a whisper. "Your script bag. Did you leave it unattended?"

Evelyn's stomach tightened. "During the costume fitting. Forty minutes. I left it with the wardrobe mistress."

"Who left it on a table in the green room."

The green room. Public. Accessible.

"What did you find?"

Marcus pulled a folded piece of cream-colored paper from his jacket. The stationery was thick, expensive, the kind you bought from Smythson on Bond Street. He unfolded it carefully, holding it by the edges.

Evelyn read the words, and the blood drained from her face.

*"A soul confined cannot breathe free But walls of flesh are worse to me You smile for them, you bleed for them Yet I alone know where you've been."*

Her hands trembled. "That's from *The Duchess of Devizes*. Act three. The Countess's monologue about her imprisonment."

"Someone's telling you they know your work. Your schedule. The line between performance and reality."

"Who printed it? Handwriting?"

"No. Laser printer. No fingerprints on the paper. Folded into your script at page forty-seven—the page you'd open to today." Marcus's jaw tightened. "They knew you'd be rehearsing that scene."

A cold wave washed through Evelyn. "They're here. Watching."

"Or they know someone who is."

She thought of Oliver's easy smile. Gareth's scattered chaos. The stagehands with their ladders and tape. Forty faces, all of them blurred together, any one of them capable of wearing a mask.

"I'm scared, Marcus."

The words came out smaller than she intended. For a moment, the armor cracked. Marcus's hand found her shoulder, warm and grounding.

"Good. Fear keeps you alive."

"That's not the most comforting thing you've ever said."

"It's the truest." His thumb brushed her collarbone, then withdrew. The absence of his touch felt louder than the presence had. "I'm driving you everywhere now. No more cabs, no more walking, no more *anything* without me. Rehearsal, home, anywhere you want to go—you tell me first."

"And if I need to pee at two in the morning?"

"Then I stand outside the door."

A laugh escaped her, brittle around the edges. "You're serious."

"Deadly."

She looked at the note again, then at the man who carried it like a sacred text. "You're the only thing that feels safe right now. That's terrifying."

"I know." He pocketed the note. "We'll talk to Gareth. Adjust the security. And tonight—you're not going home to an empty flat."

"Where am I going?"

"My hotel. I'll take the couch." Before she could argue, he added, "Or I'll stand in the corner of your bedroom and stare at you. Your choice."

"Romantic."

"I'm a professional."

An hour later, the flat was quiet with the humming tension of two people who'd crossed a line they couldn't uncross. Evelyn curled on one end of the sofa, wearing an old jumper and leggings, a glass of red wine warming in her palms. Marcus sat opposite, in the armchair, spine straight even in repose.

He'd taken the place against the wall. She noticed things like that now: how he always positioned himself to see the exits, how his right hand stayed free, how his eyes tracked shadows when she moved.

"Can you stop scanning for threats for five minutes and just exist?"

A ghost of a smile. "No."

"Try." She patted the sofa cushion beside her. "I promise the windows aren't going to explode."

He hesitated. Then, with the careful deliberation of a man unaccustomed to softness, he rose and settled on the cushion. The space between them felt charged, electric.

"There's a spot. On the back of your neck. You rub it when you're tired."

Evelyn blinked. "You notice everything."

"I notice *you*."

The words hung between them, heavier than either intended. She reached out, her fingers brushing his forearm—muscle tensed beneath her touch, then slowly released.

"The note. It said *I alone know where you've been*." She traced the seam of his sleeve. "Maybe it's not about the theatre. Maybe it's about the safe house. How would they know about that?"

Marcus went still. "Bill's been looking into that. The safe house was arranged through Cotter's network, but the property belongs to a shell company. He's tracing it back."

"And your—whoever recruited you? Hendricks? Have they said anything?"

He looked away. "Not since the phone went dark."

"Which means your handler cut contact the moment we found the rose at the restaurant."

"Or before that."

A beat of silence. Evelyn set down her wine and shifted closer. The distance between them collapsed to inches.

"Marcus. If you're compromised—"

"I'm not."

"—then I need to know. Because I'm putting my life in your hands, and I need to trust those hands."

He looked at her then, truly looked, and for a moment the mask slipped. Behind the soldier's discipline she saw grief, guilt, a loneliness that mirrored her own.

"I was hired to protect you, Evelyn. That was the job. But somewhere between Afghanistan and that godforsaken cottage, things got… complicated." His voice roughened. "I don't know what I am to you. I know what I want to be. And that's more dangerous than any stalker."

Her breath caught. "What do you want to be?"

He leaned in, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. The air thickened. Her pulse hammered in her throat.

Then his phone buzzed. Once, twice, a third time.

Marcus pulled back, face shuttering. He glanced at the screen, and something cold flickered across his features.

"What is it?"

"Bill." He stood, pacing to the window. "He found something on Oliver."

"Oliver? He's just a fellow actor—"

"He has a record. Two years ago, in Manchester. A restraining order from a female colleague." Marcus turned to face her, and the softness was gone, replaced by the soldier's mask. "Harassment. Stalking. The exact same pattern as your man with the roses."