She doesn't react—not outright. But when she looks up and our eyes meet, I have my answer. A pause before she resets, that smooth professionalism sliding into place.

"Callahan, this is Isabella Russo, our store manager," Reyes says.

She offers a polite, businesslike smile. "Nice to meet you."

I shake her hand. It's warm. Steady.

"You too."

Her lips press into a tight line that isn't quite a smile but isn't dismissive either. Professional. Distant. She nods toward Reyes. "Tom mentioned you'd be coming in today. Have you had a chance to review the security system yet?"

I shake my head. "Not yet. Wanted to get a look at the store first."

She nods, tucking the tablet under her arm. "Good. I know corporate already gave you the rundown, but I'll be blunt—we're understaffed in loss prevention. We're dealing with high-end clients, high-risk merchandise, and corporate expectations that don't always align with reality. I need to know if I can rely on you."

I don't blink. "You can."

She studies me.

Reyes clears his throat, filling the silence. "Callahan's got extensive experience. Military background, worked high-profile private security after that. He'll get the security issues locked down."

She flicks her gaze back to me. "Army?"

I nod. "Ten years."

She nods, accepting the answer without prying. But then, after a brief pause, she tilts her head slightly. "I heard you also have a background in cybersecurity."

I watch her, debating how much to say. "That's right."

"How deep does that go?" she asks, crossing her arms, curiosity slipping into her tone. "We're dealing with more than just grab-and-run theft. High-end fraud, internal shrink, even digital scams—clients trying to do chargebacks on merchandise they actually walked out with. I need to know if you're the kind of security that can handle just physical threats, or if you can see the ones happening behind the scenes, too."

She's smart. Smarter than Reyes gives her credit for.

"I see all threats," I say simply.

Her lips twitch, like she doesn't know if she believes me. "All threats?"

I nod. "If there's a way in, I can find it. If there's a blind spot, I'll patch it. And if someone thinks they can outsmart the system, they won't get far."

She studies me, like she's trying to decide if I'm just saying what she wants to hear.

"Every store I've worked for," I add, "had their numbers flipped in the first three months. You've got thieves walking through your front doors who don't even realize I already know who they are."

Her fingers tap lightly against her tablet. "No one's ever that good."

My lips twitch with quiet amusement. "No thief I've ever tracked has gotten away. If they were smart enough to, I wouldn't have known they were stealing at all."

She huffs a short breath, a mix of amusement or maybe grudging respect, then nods. "We'll see."

It's not a challenge exactly, but it's close.

I like that.

"Your schedule will mirror mine for the first few weeks," she continues. "That means early mornings, late nights, weekends. You good with that?"

"I'm used to worse."

"Good," she says again, and there's a directness about the way she says it, the efficiency of it, that I like. She doesn't waste words. Doesn't ask questions she doesn't need the answer to.

We go over the rest of the logistics. The existing security protocols, how loss prevention handles incidents, where the biggest issues have been. She's direct, focused, and I can already tell she's used to managing people who don't listen to her.

I do.

I answer her questions, keep my responses short, watch the way she absorbs each detail, already running through solutions in her head.

She doesn't mention last night.

Doesn't acknowledge the way our eyes met across the restaurant, or the way she hesitated before stepping into that elevator.

Maybe she doesn't remember.

But then, right before Reyes wraps up our conversation, she glances at me again.

Just a second too long.

Just enough for me to see it—the shift in her breath.

She does remember.

She's just pretending she doesn't.

I don't know if I like that or not.

The day moves fast, a blur of meetings, system checks, and introductions that I barely register beyond what I need to know. I shake hands, nod at people I probably won't remember by the end of the shift, listen to a rundown of security policies that are incomplete at best and outright useless at worst. I spend most of the morning doing what I do best—watching.

I watch the staff, learning their patterns, their strengths, their weaknesses. There are seasoned employees who know the clientele, their voices smooth and persuasive as they close a sale. There are newer hires, eager but a little overwhelmed. And then there's her.

Isabella is everywhere.

I catch glimpses of her throughout the day, moving from department to department, switching between firm and charming depending on what the situation calls for. One minute, she's talking a new hire through a luxury sale, making sure they upsell without pushing too hard. The next, she's handling an upset vendor over the phone, smoothing out some last-minute delay.

She moves like she's the one keeping this place from collapsing. And maybe she is.

What surprises me most isn't her efficiency—I expected that. It's the way people respect her. The way employees lower their voices when she's talking, the way they listen. I've worked in plenty of places where managers act like dictators or get completely walked over. Isabella doesn't do either. She's got a grip on every element of this place, and she knows it.

What I don't know is if anyone else notices just how much she does.

If anyone actually sees her.

If that douchebag boyfriend of hers does.

The thought irritates me more than it should, but I push it aside, focus on the job.

I sit in the surveillance room, watching the monitors cycle through different angles of the store, my fingers drumming idly against the desk. Most of the day has been uneventful. A few minor shoplifting attempts, no organized efforts, no professional techniques.

My focus returns to her.

She's in the personal shopping suite, standing near one of the wingback armchairs that look like they belong in a cigar lounge more than a department store. Across from her, a man in his forties is perched comfortably, a tailored navy suit doing nothing to hide his sleaze. The way he leans back, swirling his drink lazily. He’s the human embodiment of trust fund divorce settlement and a Rolex he didn’t earn. I know everything about him before he even opens hs mouth.

A repeat customer. Someone used to getting what he wants.

I switch to the camera with better audio, adjusting the volume just enough to pick up the conversation.

"I actually asked for the store manager," he continues, voice slow and easy, like he has all the time in the world. "That's you, right?"

Isabella doesn't hesitate, doesn't frown or shift like she's thrown off. She just nods, keeping her expression neutral. "Yes, but my associate, Daniel, is our expert on this collection. He works directly with the designers and⁠—"

"I'd prefer to work with you," the man cuts in, a smirk twisting his features like this is some private joke between them. "If you don't mind."

She does, I can tell.

Not that she shows it outright, but I catch the way her fingers tighten just slightly against the tablet in her hands before she exhales a quiet, controlled breath.