"The past is a place of reference, not a place of residence." - Unknown

Veronica

The ballroom was almost empty, the echoes of laughter and conversation fading into the quiet hum of the cleaning crew. I felt a bone-deep weariness, a weariness that went beyond the long hours and the forced smiles. It was the weariness of carrying secrets, of living a life half-masked, of constantly performing for an audience. And tonight, the weight of it felt particularly heavy.

Marcus was chatting with Mr. Abernathy, finalizing some details about the donations. I used the moment to slip away to the ladies' room, needing a moment of solitude before facing the rest of the evening. I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the lingering tension, the unsettling memory of *him*. Liam. Just the thought of his name sent a shiver down my spine. His brother's visit had been a stark reminder of a past I desperately wanted to forget, a chapter of my life I had carefully sealed away. But like a persistent ghost, it had returned, threatening to haunt me once more.

I reapplied my lipstick, trying to project an image of composure I didn't feel. I knew I couldn't afford to let my guard down, not even for a moment. Not with Marcus, not with Saint, not with anyone. The mask had to stay in place.

As I stepped back into the ballroom, I saw Saint talking to Marcus, their conversation hushed and serious. They both turned as I approached, their expressions carefully neutral.

"Ready to go, Veronica?" Marcus asked, offering me his arm.

"Yes," I replied, forcing a smile. "I'm ready."

We walked towards the exit, Saint following close behind. As we reached the hotel's grand entrance, a sleek black limousine was waiting, its engine purring softly. A uniformed driver opened the door, and Marcus gestured for me to enter first.

"After you," he said.

I hesitated for a moment, a flicker of unease creeping in. Being alone in a car with Marcus, with Saint… it felt too close, too confining. But I couldn't very well protest. It would only raise questions, questions I wasn't prepared to answer.

I slid into the plush leather seats, Marcus following beside me. Saint took the seat facing us, his gaze steady and observant. The door closed with a soft thud, and the limousine glided smoothly into the night.

The city lights blurred past the window, a kaleidoscope of colors against the dark canvas of the night sky. Marcus and Saint engaged in polite conversation, discussing the success of the auction, the impact of the donations. I nodded along, adding an occasional comment, but my mind was elsewhere. It was replaying the conversation with Liam's brother, the unwanted intrusion of the past into my carefully constructed present.

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*He's up for parole,* he had said, his voice laced with a strange mix of hope and desperation. *I wanted to let you know.*

The thought made my stomach churn. Let me know? Why? After what he did? After what he took from me? The sheer audacity of it was breathtaking. And the fear… the fear was a cold knot in my chest. Seven years. Seven years I had tried to bury it, to move on, to rebuild my life. And now, he was coming back. A wave of nausea washed over me. I closed my eyes, trying to control my breathing, trying to push the memories back down into the dark corners of my mind where they belonged.

I glanced at Saint, his profile illuminated by the passing streetlights. He was watching me, I could feel his gaze, even though he wasn't directly looking at me. I wondered what he was thinking. Did he suspect something? Did he sense the turmoil beneath my carefully crafted facade? I knew he was perceptive, that he saw more than he let on. And that, in itself, was a source of both comfort and unease. He was a constant presence in my life, a silent guardian, always watching, always protecting. But from what? From whom?

The limousine turned onto my street, the familiar landmarks of my neighborhood coming into view. As we approached my building, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. The evening was almost over. The performance was almost complete. Soon, I would be alone, in the sanctuary of my own home, where I could finally let down the mask and just… breathe. But even as I thought it, I knew it wasn't true. The past, it seemed, was not ready to let me go. And I had a feeling that the night was far from over. As the limousine pulled to a stop, I noticed two black SUVs discreetly positioning themselves behind us. Saint's security detail. Always watching. Always protecting. Or perhaps, I thought with a flicker of paranoia, always watching *me*.

Marcus and Saint walked me to the front door of my building. "Thank you both for a lovely evening," I said, my keys jingling softly as I finally located them in the depths of my purse.

"It was our pleasure, Veronica," Marcus replied, giving me a warm smile.

As I finally managed to unlock the door, Saint's gaze swept over the elegant, well-lit lobby, his eyes narrowing slightly. He paused, his senses on high alert. Something was off. He couldn't quite place it, but the air felt…charged. A prickling sensation at the back of my neck echoed his unease. The tasteful artwork on the walls seemed to watch me with unseen eyes. I suddenly felt very vulnerable.

"Everything alright, Mr. Stone?" I asked, noticing his change in demeanor.

"Just being cautious," he replied, his voice low. "I'll see you safely to your door."

He and Marcus accompanied me to the elevator. The ride up to my floor was short, but it felt interminable. As the doors opened onto the private landing of my loft, I fumbled with my keys again, my hand shaking slightly. Saint's eyes scanned the landing, lingering on the shadows near my door.

"Thank you," I said, finally managing to unlock the door. "Good night."

"Good night, Veronica," Marcus replied.

Saint gave a curt nod, his eyes still scanning the surroundings. As I stepped inside, I locked the door behind me and punched in my security code, the series of numbers a familiar ritual, a small act of reclaiming control. I glanced back to see him and Marcus getting back into the limousine. Even as the door closed behind me, I could still feel his gaze, a silent warning, a promise of protection…or surveillance. I wasn't sure which. But as I turned to face the quiet elegance of my loft, I knew one thing for certain: I wasn't safe yet. Not by a long shot. The feeling of being watched lingered, a chilling reminder that even within the supposed sanctuary of my own home, the past had a way of reaching out, its icy fingers brushing against my skin, whispering promises of a reckoning to come. The silence of my loft felt heavy, pregnant with unspoken threats, and I knew, with a chilling certainty, that the night was far from over.

I got ready for bed, the simple routine a small comfort in the face of the unease that still clung to me. Slipping into my pajamas, I thought of Saint. His watchful presence, the way his eyes seemed to see right through me. I wondered what it would have been like to dance with him tonight. He moved with such grace and precision, a powerful elegance that was both intimidating and…intriguing. I could almost feel his hand on my waist, the firm pressure guiding me across the dance floor. A foolish fantasy, I knew. He was my protector, not a partner. But the thought lingered, a small flicker of warmth in the chill that had settled over me. Curling up on the sofa with my cat, Daisy, purring softly on my lap, I tried to push the thoughts of Liam, of the past, of the unknown future, from my mind. But they swirled around me, like shadows in the dimly lit room, refusing to let me go. And as sleep finally claimed me, I dreamt of watchful eyes, whispered threats, and the intoxicating sensation of dancing with Saint, his strong arms holding me close, the line between protector and something more blurring in the darkness. The dream was vivid, unsettling, and strangely…enthralling.