Read Chapter 17: Matters of Trust

The folder sat on the corner of Marcus’s desk, unremarkable in every way—manila, worn at the edges, a single rubber band holding it together. Evelyn wouldn’t have given it a second glance if she hadn’t been looking for a pen.

She’d come to the study-turned-command-center to borrow something to write with, scribbling blocking notes on her script during a break from rehearsal. Marcus had stepped out to speak with his security contact, confirming the route for tonight’s drive back to the theater. The laptop hummed on the desk, encrypted chat windows minimized. The room smelled of coffee and discipline.

The folder sat beside a stack of printed threat assessments. Her name was printed on the top sheet. Evelyn knew she shouldn’t look. She’d been raised better than to pry, and Marcus had earned her trust over weeks of quiet competence, of nights spent guarding her sleep, of his hand steady on the wheel while her world tilted.

But the folder was open. Not sealed. Not marked confidential. Just sitting there, careless or intentional, she couldn’t tell. And the name written in black marker along the tab was not hers.

Daniel Cross.

Her ex-boyfriend. The famous actor. The man who’d dumped her via publicist’s email two days after her father’s funeral, citing “irreconcilable creative differences.”

Evelyn’s hand moved before her mind could stop it. The rubber band slipped off. Inside, photographs—Daniel at a charity gala, Daniel leaving a gym in Soho, Daniel with his new girlfriend outside a restaurant in Chelsea. Date stamps in the corner. Recent. Within the last two weeks.

Then the documents. Bank records. Property deeds. A list of phone numbers with call logs. A private investigator’s report, letterhead embossed, detailing Daniel’s movements, his associates, his schedule at the National Theatre where he was currently headlining a revival.

Her breath caught. She flipped through page after page, each one more invasive than the last. Medical records. No—therapy records. Redacted, but present. A magistrate’s note about a civil dispute involving one of Daniel’s neighbors.

“What are you doing?”

Marcus’s voice came from the doorway, low and flat, all the controlled calm of a man who’d caught a rat in the kitchen. Evelyn spun, the folder clutched to her chest like a shield.

“What is this?”

He crossed the room in three strides. She stepped back, holding the folder tighter. He stopped, jaw tightening, hands curling at his sides—not aggressive, but braced.

“Evelyn.”

“Don’t Evelyn me.” Her voice cracked. She was shaking. She hadn’t expected the shaking. “This is Daniel Cross. My ex-boyfriend. You’ve been having him followed. You have his bank statements. His therapy records, Marcus. This is—this is illegal. This is insane.”

“It’s necessary.”

“Necessary?” She laughed, hollow. “What happened to ‘I keep you safe’? What happened to trust?”

He held her gaze, steady, unblinking. The eyes of a man who’d seen too much to flinch from hard truths. “Trust is earned. So is safety. I told you I’d do whatever it takes to keep you alive. That wasn’t a promise I made lightly.”

“So you invade my life? Everyone I’ve ever known?”

“I checked the threats, not the people. Every person within your orbit gets a baseline assessment. Daniel Cross is in your orbit because you dated him for three years and he still carries a torch he’s too proud to admit. That makes him a variable. Variables get investigated.”

“He broke up with me. He doesn’t carry anything.”

“He’s been to your flat three times in the past month. He waited outside the Almeida twice. He called your publicist asking for your schedule under the name ‘David Coleman.’” Marcus’s voice was clinical, reciting facts like a surgeon listing symptoms. “That’s not the behavior of a man who moved on.”

Evelyn’s stomach dropped. Daniel had always been persistent, charming even in his cruelty. But this—this was obsession. She remembered the way he’d looked at her at that charity gala two months ago, all pity and condescension. She’d assumed he was gloating.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you have enough to carry. Your stalker is still out there. Your play opens in three weeks. And now you’ve got a castmate who wants to be more than a colleague.”

Her hand tightened on the folder. “Oliver? You’ve been digging into Oliver too?”

Marcus walked to the desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a second file. This one was thinner, but the label read: OLIVER THORNE.

“He’s clean on the surface. Theatre credits, good reviews, alimony paid on time. But I ran deeper.” He opened it, slid out a single sheet—a court document, stamped with the seal of the Bristol Crown Court. “Three years ago, he was served a restraining order. The complainant was a stage manager he dated during a West End run. She claimed he followed her home, sent her hundreds of messages, showed up at her place of work when she declined to see him again.”

Evelyn took the paper. Her hands trembled. The name at the top—Sarah Whitmore—was unfamiliar. But the pattern was not.

“The order expired after twelve months,” Marcus continued. “She withdrew it early. No reason given. But the record doesn’t go away. He’s smart, Evelyn. He knows how to hide. He’s the kind who learns from his mistakes.”

She lowered the file onto the desk. Olivia’s warm smile, his easy jokes during rehearsals, the way he always positioned himself beside her at the table read, his hand brushing hers when they swapped pages—it all replayed in her mind, now colored with a different light.

“You could have warned me,” she whispered. “You could have just told me.”

“I was waiting for confirmation.” He stepped closer, not quite touching her. His voice softened, losing its defensive edge. “I don’t move without certainty. If I’d been wrong about Oliver, I’d have tainted your working relationship for nothing. But I’m not wrong. And now you know.”

“Was Daniel ever a real threat?”

Marcus hesitated. That pause said more than any answer.

“I don’t know. His pattern is familiar, but he hasn’t escalated in a way that triggers alarms. He’s more pathetic than dangerous. But I keep him monitored because you deserve to know who’s circling. Even the ones who think they’re being discreet.”

Evelyn turned away, staring out the window at the gray London skyline. The city stretched out like a labyrinth of secrets, and she was the mouse at its center, watched by everyone.

“I need you to stop.” Her voice was quiet. “No more secret files. If you find something about someone in my life, you tell me. Directly. I can’t—I can’t be surrounded by spies and not know.”

Marcus came up behind her. She felt his presence, solid and warm in the chill of the room. His breath stirred the fine hairs at her neck.

“I will tell you everything from now on,” he said. “But you have to understand something. You’re my priority. Not just because I’m paid to protect you. Because I made a choice to stand between you and the world, and I don’t make that choice lightly. When I look at you, I don’t see a job. I see someone I would burn this whole city down to keep safe.”

She turned. His face was so close hers, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t name. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

“And who is watching you?” she asked, her voice barely a thread.

He almost smiled. “No one. That’s the point. I’m the wall. Walls don’t sleep.”

Evelyn reached up, fingers hovering at the collar of his jacket. She didn’t touch the skin beneath. Not yet.

“I don’t want a wall, Marcus. I want you.”

The air between them thickened. He didn’t move, didn’t reach for her. But his hand came up, settling over hers, warm and rough, and pressed it against his chest, where his heart beat beneath the fabric of his shirt.

“When this is over,” he said, low. “When you’re safe. I’ll be here. But I won’t let myself become the thing that compromises you.”

The folder on the desk, its edges curling, held the weight of the world between them.

And outside, a car engine idled on the street below, watching the townhouse’s windows. Waiting.