Chapter 4: Lines I Don't Cross-Until Her

Sebastian’s POV

I don’t think about women after they leave a room. That’s a rule. One of the many that keeps me alive.

Attachment clouds judgment, and judgment is everything in my world.

Yet the next morning before my first meeting, before my first cup of coffee, Isla Carter was already on my screen.

Not by accident.

“Boss,” Matteo said, placing the tablet on my desk. “Ito na yung daily reports.”

I skimmed through shipments, accounts, and territory movements. Everything was running smoothly.

Predictable.

Controlled.

Then I swiped.

Security stills. Time stamps. Locations.

Isla leaving Pier 9.

Isla enters her apartment building.

Isla bought coffee the next morning.

“She left Pier 9 alone,” Matteo said.

“Walang kasama. Sinunod ang utos mo.”

Good.

I stood and walked toward the windows, the city stretched below me like a chessboard. People moved thinking they were free. They never were.

“Her routine?” I asked.

“Same pa rin,” Matteo replied. “Office sa umaga. Coffee shop sa kanto. Uwi before nine. Walang weird na detour.”

I nodded.

Predictable routines were dangerous.

They made people easy to find.

“Background,” I said calmly.

“Isla Carter,” Matteo began. “Investigative journalist. Early twenties. Nasa mid-level publication. Walang criminal record. Walang known ties sa rival families. Lives alone.”

Too clean.

“She’s clean,” Matteo added. “Which usually means—”

“She hasn’t been touched,” I finished.

“Yet.”

I took the tablet and scrolled again, this time slower. Articles. By-lines. Old photos. Awards. Her writing wasn’t reckless. It was careful. Precise. The kind that waits until the knife is already in before twisting.

I should have shut this down the moment she walked into Pier 9.

Instead, I found myself checking the time stamps again.

“She reacted to the message?” I asked.

“Wala, boss,” Matteo said. “Pero pumasok siya sa trabaho kaninang umaga. Normal routine. Parang walang nangyari.”

Interesting.

Most people panic when they receive a message like that.

Isla Carter didn’t.

I dismissed Matteo, but even alone, I kept the tablet in my hand. I told myself it was a strategy.

Risk assessment.

Still, by noon, I checked again.

She was at her desk.

At two, she left for lunch.

At six, she was still in the office.

She was digging.

Stubborn, I thought. And reckless.

That night, standing on my balcony, city lights flickering below, I pulled out my phone.

I didn’t save her number.

I didn’t need to.

I typed.

You’re still asking questions.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Stop before this gets worse.

Deleted.

In the end, I sent nothing.

Control. Discipline. Distance. That’s how empires survive. Yet before going inside, I checked once more, just once.

She was home.

Safe.

I didn’t tell myself why that mattered. If Isla Carter kept writing, she would reach the truth. And when she did, I wouldn’t know whether to silence her.

Or protect her.

For the first time in years, I realized something dangerous:

I wasn’t monitoring her because she was a threat.

I was monitoring her

because somewhere along the line, she became my responsibility. And that was a line I never crossed.

Until her.