Chapter 13

Sera POV

I woke up at 4am to the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. For a moment, I couldn't remember where I was, the condo bedroom was still unfamiliar enough that waking up disoriented wasn't unusual. But this felt different. Sharper. Like my body was convinced something was wrong even though my mind couldn't identify what.

The walk home last night came flooding back. The man in the dark jacket, the way he'd matched my pace, the deliberate distance he'd maintained. I'd convinced myself I was being paranoid by the time I reached the condo, but lying here in the dark, that certainty felt less solid.

I rolled over and checked my phone. No missed calls, no messages, nothing to suggest any real danger. Just the lingering unease of someone who'd spent too much time looking over her shoulder.

The rest of the night was a wash. Every sound from the hallway made me tense, every shadow from the street lights looked like a figure in the windows. By the time my alarm went off at six, I felt like I'd been awake for days.

Coffee helped, but not enough. I dressed carefully for work, choosing the navy blazer Bri had insisted would make me look "competent and unapproachable"—though I wasn't sure unapproachable was the image I wanted to project at my internship.

The walk to Hoblox felt different too. I found myself checking reflections in store windows, taking note of who was behind me, choosing routes that kept me in well-populated areas. Probably overkill, but better paranoid than sorry.

"You look terrible," Emma announced the moment I sat down at my desk.

"Good morning to you too."

"I'm serious. Did you sleep at all last night?" She leaned over the cubicle partition, studying my face with the intensity of a medical examiner. "You've got that hollow-eyed look that screams insomnia."

"Just stressed about the quarterly analysis. I stayed up too late working on it."

"The analysis that was due next week?"

"I wanted to get ahead of schedule."

Emma shook her head. "You're going to burn yourself out. This place will take everything you're willing to give and then ask for more. You have to set boundaries."

"Says the woman who was here until nine PM yesterday."

"That's different. I get paid to be here until nine PM. You're an intern. Your job description doesn't include sacrificing your sanity for quarterly reports."

She had a point, but I couldn't explain that work wasn't what was keeping me awake. How do you tell someone that you think you're being followed by mysterious strangers and having dreams that feel more real than your waking life?

The morning passed in a blur of spreadsheets and data entry. I threw myself into the work with the kind of intensity that made thinking about anything else impossible. Numbers were safe. Patterns were logical. Data didn't follow you home or appear in your dreams speaking languages you didn't recognize.

Around eleven, my desk phone rang.

"This is Seraphina."

"Miss Knox? This is Rebecca from the executive floor. Mr. Cross would like to see your preliminary analysis when you have a moment."

My stomach dropped. "The analysis isn't finished yet."

"He's aware of that. He'd just like to review what you have so far."

"I could email what I've completed..."

"He'd prefer to discuss it in person. Would two o'clock work?"

After I hung up, I stared at my computer screen and tried not to panic. Damon wanted to see incomplete work, which either meant he was impressed enough to check on my progress or concerned enough to intervene before I made things worse.

"What's wrong now?" Emma asked. "You look like someone just told you the building was on fire."

"The CEO wants to see my analysis."

"That's good, right?"

"I don't know. Is it normal for CEOs to review intern projects?"

"Nothing about your internship has been normal so far," she pointed out. "Most interns spend their time making copies and fetching coffee. You're working directly with the strategy team on high-level analysis. Either you're phenomenally talented or something weird is going on."

"What do you mean, something weird?"

"I mean executives don't usually take personal interest in interns unless there's a reason beyond job performance." She waggled her eyebrows. "Maybe he's noticed more than just your analytical skills."

"Emma, that's ridiculous."

"Is it? You're smart, you're pretty, and you have that whole mysterious, slightly tragic thing going on. Some guys find that irresistible."

"He's the CEO of a major corporation. I'm a scholarship student from nowhere. We don't exactly move in the same circles."

"Stranger things have happened. Besides, workplace romances are practically a corporate tradition."

I spent the rest of the morning trying to organize my preliminary findings into something coherent enough to present. The regional variances I'd identified were becoming more pronounced the deeper I dug, but I still couldn't pinpoint the underlying cause.

At 2 o'clock exactly, I took the elevator to the executive floor, carrying a folder of charts and graphs that represented hours of work but felt inadequate nonetheless.

Rebecca waved me toward Damon's office without looking up from her computer. "Go right in. He's expecting you."

I knocked on the door frame, since the door was open.

"Come in, Seraphina. Close the door behind you."

The request to close the door made my pulse quicken, though I couldn't say why. Professional meetings happened behind closed doors all the time. But something about the way he said it, casual but deliberate, made it feel significant.

"How's the analysis coming along?" he asked, gesturing for me to take a seat across from his desk.

"Slowly but steadily. I keep finding new layers to explore."

"Show me what you've found so far."

I spread my charts across his desk, walking him through the regional variances and the patterns I'd identified. He listened intently, asking questions that suggested he was following my reasoning rather than just being polite.

"This is more sophisticated than I expected," he said when I finished. "You're identifying correlations that our senior analysts have missed."

"Maybe they were looking at the data differently."

"Or maybe you're seeing something they can't see." He leaned back in his chair, studying me with that same intensity I'd noticed before. "Tell me about your background. How did you develop these analytical skills?"

"I don't know that I developed them, exactly. I've always been good at spotting patterns, even as a kid. Teachers said I had an intuitive grasp of mathematical relationships."

"Intuitive how?"

"Like the patterns were already there, waiting for me to notice them. Not something I had to work to understand, just something I had to pay attention to."

The conversation felt familiar, like we'd had it before in a different context. Damon's expression shifted, becoming more focused, more personal.

"Do you ever feel like you know things you haven't learned?"

The question was so close to my own recent experiences that I felt my breath catch. "What do you mean?"

"Information that feels familiar even though you've never encountered it before. Skills that seem natural even though you've never practiced them."

"Yes," I said without thinking. "Yes, exactly like that."

We stared at each other across his desk, and I had the strangest sensation that we were having two conversations—one about data analysis and corporate strategy, and another about something much more personal and much more dangerous.

"I've been meaning to ask," he said, shifting topics so smoothly I almost missed the transition. "How are you finding the executive floor? Different from where you started?"

"Very different. More intense, but in a good way. I feel like I'm actually contributing instead of just observing."

"And you're comfortable working late? I noticed the lights in your area when I left yesterday."

I felt embarrassed, he noticed?

"I lose track of time when I'm working on something interesting. Last night I stayed until almost nine." Best response I could come up with.

"Nine?" His eyebrows rose. "That's quite late for someone walking home alone."

"It's not that far, and downtown is pretty safe."

"Still. A young woman walking alone after dark..." He trailed off, then seemed to make a decision. "If you're going to be working late regularly, let security know. They can escort you to the parking garage or call you a cab."

"I don't mind walking."

"I'm sure you don't. But humor me. The city can be unpredictable, especially for someone who stands out."

"Stands out how?"

"You're not exactly invisible, Seraphina. And not everyone who notices attractive young women has good intentions."

The compliment, if that's what it was, made my cheeks warm. But there was something in his tone that suggested concern beyond general workplace courtesy.

"Has something happened? Some kind of security issue I should know about?"

"Nothing specific. Just general caution. The building has had some unusual incidents lately—people who don't belong here, security anomalies. Better to be safe."

I thought about the man who'd followed me home yesterday, the deliberate way he'd matched my movements. Maybe my paranoia hadn't been paranoia after all.

"What kind of incidents?"

"Probably nothing to worry about. But if you notice anything unusual, anything that makes you uncomfortable let me know imediately."

“Thank you, I'll do just that.” There was the tone of concern again.

After I left his office, I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to focus on work, but the conversation kept replaying in my mind. Damon's concern had felt personal, like he was worried about my safety for reasons that went beyond corporate liability.

By 6 o'clock, most of the executive floor had emptied out, but I found myself reluctant to leave. The quarterly analysis was consuming, yes, but there was something else keeping me at my desk. A sense that staying late, being alone in the building, might lead to answers I wasn't getting during normal business hours.

At about 8:30, I was deep in regional consumer data when I heard footsteps in the hallway. Deliberate, unhurried, echoing off the marble floors with familiar confidence.

A few moments later, Damon appeared around the corner of my cubicle, jacket off and tie loosened, looking more approachable than I'd ever se

en him.

"Working late again," he observed.

"The data keeps revealing new connections. I wanted to follow them while they were fresh."

"Find anything interesting