I toe off my boots, drop my keys onto the counter with a metallic clatter, and sit in front of my laptop. The distant sounds of city traffic filter through my windows, a constant urban lullaby I've learned to tune out.

I tell myself I'm just getting a head start. That it's normal to research the people I'm going to be working with. It's smart.

But as I type her name into the search bar, I already know that's bullshit.

Her LinkedIn pops up first—typical corporate headshot, a clean, professional summary. Store manager at an upscale department store, promoted quickly, strong track record.

Her Instagram is next. It's mostly safe, mostly work-related. Fashion, product launches, staff events. But the further back I scroll, the more personal it gets. A photo of her at a rooftop bar, laughing, her head tilted back. A post from three years ago of her and her family—three brothers, parents who look straight out of an old Italian movie.

I don't know what that kind of family feels like.

The only person left in mine is my dad, and even that feels like more of a technicality these days.

He's back in Pennsylvania, still in the same house I grew up in. We talk, but not as often as we should. I haven't seen him in almost a year. Meant to visit a few months back, but I kept putting it off. Told myself work got in the way, but the truth is, I'm not great at showing up. Never have been.

I should call him.

The thought lingers in the back of my mind as I keep scrolling.

Eventually, I find what I'm really looking for.

Evan.

I don't have to dig hard. He's one of those guys who makes himself easy to find—public profile, polished photos, all surface-level confidence. He appears to work in finance, the kind of man you'd expect to see at that restaurant, all clean lines and expensive habits. Every picture is the same—him in expensive suits, gym selfies that show off his gains, expensive dinners where he's tagged the restaurant like it's part of his personal brand.

I skim the captions, the comments. The ones where his friends hype him up, where women leave the sort of emojis that tell me everything I need to know about him.

Then I go back to her profile.

I scroll through the last year of posts. No pictures of Evan. No tagged dinners, no anniversary shoutouts. If I hadn't just watched them leave together, I'd assume she was single.

That tells me a story.

So does the fact that I'm sitting here, doing this at all.

I close my laptop, scrub a hand over my jaw, feeling the rough stubble there, and sit back in my chair, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the muted sounds of my neighbor's television through the wall.

This isn't like me. I don't get caught up in complications like this.

I don't care about people's personal lives, about what they do when they leave work, about the way a woman I don't even know looked at a man like she was waiting for him to see her and already knew he wouldn't.

At least, I tell myself I don't.

It's a lie, though, isn't it? Because I know exactly what that look feels like.

I saw it in the mirror once.

I wasn't supposed to care back then, either. It wasn't the job of a soldier to carry anything other than what was necessary, and that included emotions. You pack light. You don't make promises you can't keep, don't let yourself get too comfortable, don't expect anything to be waiting for you when you get home.

I broke that rule.

I was deployed when I got the email. It was short, clinical. No explanations, no real apology. Just a fact. She'd moved on. She was getting married.

And the real kicker? By the time my boots hit U.S. soil again, she wasn't just married. She was pregnant.

With triplets.

Which meant they weren't just an item after we broke up. They were together while she was still telling me she loved me. While we were engaged.

I should have seen it coming. She used to get frustrated with how often I was gone, how little I could give her beyond phone calls and letters. She wanted stability, someone who could be there for her in a way I couldn't be. I used to tell myself that was fair. That I couldn't blame her for choosing someone else.

But that didn't stop the betrayal from sitting in my chest like a bullet that never got removed.

After that, I learned my lesson.

You don't put faith in something that can be taken away from you while you're halfway across the world. You don't put faith in people.

That's why this—this fixation brewing in my head over a woman I haven't even met—isn't right.

I don't know Isabella Russo.

She has nothing to do with me.

So why the hell can't I stop thinking about her?

I exhale sharply, rubbing a hand down my face. I need sleep. I need to call my dad. I need to stop thinking about a woman who isn't mine to think about.

But instead, I sit in the quiet of my apartment, the ticking of the clock on my wall marking time, wondering if she's staring at the ceiling the way I am.

Wondering if, right now, she's lying awake thinking about me the same way I'm thinking about her.

IF SHE FALLS, I’M THE GROUND

CAL

Monarch is bigger than I expected.

I knew it was high-end, knew the clientele would be the kind that doesn't look at price tags before handing over a black card, but still—this place is a fortress wrapped in designer packaging. Glass cases filled with jewelry worth more than my ride, handbags displayed like museum pieces, clothing racks curated like a gallery exhibit. Too much money, too many moving parts, and not nearly enough security.

Which is why I'm here.

I arrive early, dressed in black tactical pants and a fitted button-down, professional but functional. I take my time walking the floor before the store opens, watching employees set up displays, tracking the cameras, mapping out entry and exit points in my head. The steady airflow from the vents moves through the space, mingling with the quiet click of hangers and the soft padding of feet on polished floors. People notice me. A few nod in acknowledgment; others glance, then keep moving.

I don't care. I'm not here to make friends.

I check in with the security team first, go over their current protocols, assess the weak spots. Some of them have been here for years, others only a few months. Most of them are used to handling the standard stuff—shoplifters, a drunk VIP here and there, the occasional handbag disappearing during a private shopping appointment. What they aren't prepared for is organized retail crime, professional-level theft, or someone who knows exactly how to manipulate the blind spots in their system.

And from what I saw in the initial reports, that's exactly what's happening.

I'm scanning through a list of incidents when a voice pulls my attention.

"Callahan," Tom Reyes, my corporate contact from last night, claps a hand on my shoulder. "Come meet your store manager."

I already know who she is.

I knew before I stepped into this store, before my name was even on payroll.

Still, when I turn, when I finally see her up close in the daylight, it does something to me.

She’s different this morning. More composed. A fitted blazer skims her curves—flattering, not flaunting. Sleek heels echo across the marble with each step, her hair styled in loose waves that feel intentional, not accidental. A tablet rests under one arm while her free hand scrolls through schedules with practiced ease. Confidence clings to her now, a far cry from the woman I saw last night—small and silent beneath her boyfriend’s scrutiny. Here, in her world, she doesn’t shrink. She owns the room.

I wonder if she even recognizes me.