Read Chapter 32: The Public Eye

The headline stared back at Evelyn from her phone screen, bold black letters against the pale morning light filtering through the curtains.

**STALKER CAPTURED: EVELYN HART SPEAKS OUT**

She'd given exactly one interview, a carefully orchestrated piece with a trusted journalist from the *Guardian*, and the response had been overwhelming. Her mentions were a wall of support—fans sharing their own stories, colleagues offering public solidarity, women she'd never met thanking her for her courage.

"You don't have to do this," Marcus said from the doorway, a cup of tea in each hand. He'd been hovering all morning, that protective edge creeping back into his posture now that the threat had a name and a face. "You can step back. Let it fade."

Evelyn set the phone down and accepted the tea. "I've been stepping back for two years. Look where that got me."

He didn't argue. He couldn't, really—she was right. Hiding had only given Whitmore space to grow his obsession. Silence had only made her a target.

The interview had been cathartic in a way she hadn't expected. She'd spoken about the letters, the fear, the years of looking over her shoulder without knowing why. She'd praised the Metropolitan Police's diligence. She'd mentioned, carefully and without naming him, that having someone who believed her made all the difference.

"What did Fiona say?" Marcus asked, settling onto the edge of the bed.

"She's fielding interview requests. Apparently everyone wants the survivor's story now that there's a villain to point at." Evelyn wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic. "But I don't want to just tell my story. I want to do something with it."

Marcus studied her face, reading the shift in her expression before she'd fully articulated it herself. "What are you thinking?"

"There's a bill going through Parliament about protections for public figures—restraining order reforms, better digital privacy laws. It's stalled in committee." She'd read about it weeks ago, when it felt like a distant concern rather than something that had shaped her life. "A celebrity endorsement could push it forward."

"You want to testify."

"I want to advocate. Publicly. Consistently." Evelyn met his eyes. "I spent two years hiding because someone made me feel unsafe. I'm done with that."

Something flickered across Marcus's face—pride, yes, but something else beneath it. A hesitation she couldn't quite name.

"That's... that's good," he said slowly. "That's brave."

"You don't sound sure."

"I am sure. I'm proud of you." He reached for her hand, his fingers warm and steady around hers. "I just—" He stopped, jaw tightening.

"Marcus."

"When they write about this, they're going to write about me too. The bodyguard who saved the actress." His voice was flat, almost clinical. "I'm not—I wasn't the hero in that room. I was a man doing his job, and I got lucky because Whitmore was in a rage and not thinking clearly. If he'd been calmer, if he'd had a weapon, if I'd been three seconds slower—"

"Don't."

"It's true. And the press doesn't care about truth. They care about narrative."

Evelyn set her tea aside and shifted closer to him. "What's the narrative they're telling?"

He pulled out his own phone, scrolling to an article she hadn't seen. The headline made her stomach drop:

**HART'S HERO: BODYGUARD'S DARK PAST SURFACES AMID STALKER DRAMA**

"Fiona's contact finally ran his piece," Marcus said. "He published it yesterday, before the arrest news broke. Now it's being picked up as context—the dangerous man who protects a vulnerable woman."

Evelyn skimmed the article. It was worse than she'd imagined. Detailed accounts of Jennifer Hale's death, framed to suggest Marcus's negligence had been criminal. References to his military discharge, scrubbed of nuance. A quote from an unnamed source calling him "volatile" and "unfit for close protection work."

"They're making you sound like a liability."

"I am a liability. Publicly, at least." He took the phone back, swiping the article away. "Your team wanted to run a background check before you hired me. They found what the press is now printing. You hired me anyway because I came recommended and your father trusted me."

"My father trusted you because you were good at your job."

"It doesn't matter what's true. It matters what people believe." Marcus stood, walking to the window. The city sprawled below them, indifferent to the drama unfolding in this penthouse apartment. "If I step into the spotlight with you, every story they write will have two angles. The survivor. And the man with blood on his hands."

Evelyn rose and joined him at the window, pressing her palm against the glass. "You didn't have blood on your hands. You saved me."

"I couldn't save Jennifer."

The admission hung between them, raw and unhealed. Evelyn had known the broad strokes—a client killed on his watch, a career derailed by guilt and scandal—but she'd never heard him say it so plainly before.

"You can't save everyone," she said quietly. "But you saved me. You've been saving me in ways you don't even realize since the day we met."

Marcus turned to face her, something vulnerable flickering in his dark eyes. "I don't know how to be the person the press wants me to be."

"Then don't be." Evelyn reached up, cupping his jaw. "Be the person I know. Be the person who came to that gala with me even though you hated every minute of it. Be the person who held me together when the police station lights felt like they were burning through my skin. I don't need a hero, Marcus. I need you."

He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, some of the tension had eased from his shoulders.

"Publicly advocating for you... that means putting ourselves out there. Both of us. Together."

"I know."

"The journalist who wrote that piece—he's not going to stop. He'll dig deeper. Find more angles."

"I know." Evelyn's voice was steady. "And I still want to do this. But I want you beside me when I do."

Marcus was quiet for a long moment, weighing something she couldn't see. Then he nodded slowly.

"If you're going to step into the light, I'm not going to let you do it alone. But I need you to understand something." He took her hands in his. "I'm not doing this because I want to be in the papers. I'm doing it because I can't stand the thought of you facing any of this without me."

"Same," she whispered.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, breaking the moment. Marcus glanced at it, then frowned.

"What is it?"

"Fiona." He picked it up, scanning the message. "She says there's a charity event next month—a victims' rights foundation gala. They want you to speak. Be the face of their new campaign for better protections."

Evelyn felt something settle in her chest—a sense of purpose she hadn't felt since before the stalking began. "Tell her yes."

"Evelyn—"

"I'm not asking permission. I'm telling you what I need to do." She held his gaze. "And I'm telling you I want you there. Not as my bodyguard." She paused, the words forming before she could second-guess them. "As my partner."

Marcus's expression softened, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Partner. I could get used to that."

He reached for his phone to reply to Fiona, but it buzzed again in his hand. A new message.

Unknown number. No name.

**I see you're still alive. Good. I was worried the old man would ruin everything before I could finish what he started.**

Marcus went very still.

"What?" Evelyn asked, reading the shift in his posture.

He turned the screen toward her, and the warmth drained from the room.

"He's not alone," Marcus said, voice low. "Whitmore wasn't the stalker. He was the apprentice."

Evelyn stared at the words on the screen, at the casual menace in their phrasing, at the way they'd been sent to Marcus's private number—a number that should have been impossible to trace.

"Who is this?" she breathed.

Marcus shook his head slowly. "I don't know. But whoever he is, he's been watching. He knows Whitmore failed. And he's telling us he's not finished."

His phone buzzed again. Another message, three words that turned Evelyn's blood to ice:

**Let's play, Marcus.**