Chapter Seven

The first night in a new place is always the loudest.

Even silence has a sound.

I stood barefoot in the middle of the living room, city lights bleeding through the windows, Chicago stretched out beneath me like an unfinished argument. The apartment smelled new—clean, untouched, unfamiliar. No trace of anyone else. No memories clinging to the walls.

Exactly what I wanted.

I unpacked methodically. Suits first. Shoes lined with precision. Toiletries arranged with the same care I used to organise case files. Control, even in the smallest things, mattered. When everything had a place, my thoughts stayed quieter.

I showered, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders until my skin tingled, until the day finally loosened its grip. I slipped into an oversized black T-shirt and nothing else, hair damp down my back, and poured myself a glass of water.

The city outside glittered indifferently.

I moved toward the window, resting my forehead briefly against the cool glass. Down below, cars streamed along the streets, lives intersecting and separating without consequence. No one knew me here. No one knew what I’d lost.

My phone buzzed on the counter.

I didn’t pick it up right away.

Eventually, I did.

Unknown number.

Again.

My jaw tightened. I stared at the screen until the buzzing stopped, then opened my call log. Two missed calls. Same number.

I blocked it.

The moment I set the phone down, there was a soft knock at the door.

Not loud. Not urgent.

Controlled.

Every muscle in my body went still.

I didn’t move right away. I listened. The hum of the city. The faint whirr of the vents. No footsteps retreating.

Another knock. Slightly firmer this time.

I walked to the door silently, heart steady but alert, and checked the security screen. The camera feed flickered to life.

A man stood in the hallway.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark coat draped open over a suit. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d been out in the cold. One hand rested casually in his pocket, the other hanging loose at his side.

Even through a grainy screen, I recognised him instantly.

My fingers tightened on the edge of the console.

Noah Carter.

I unlocked the door but didn’t open it immediately. Then I did, just enough to look at him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked flatly.

His gaze flicked over me—bare legs, damp hair, the way I stood squarely in the doorway like I might slam it shut at any second. Something unreadable crossed his face before it vanished behind that familiar, composed mask.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” he said.

“I blocked the number.”

“That explains it.”

I didn’t move aside. “How did you know where I live?”

A beat. Just one.

“Max told me you’d moved,” he said carefully. “Didn’t say where. I asked around.”

I laughed softly, humourless. “You ‘asked around’ an entire city?”

His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. “Chicago’s smaller than it looks.”

I studied him for a long moment. The same Noah. Impeccably put together. Calm to the point of cold. And yet there was something else there now—tension coiled just beneath the surface, like he was holding himself still by force.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“To make sure you’re safe.”

“I’m fine.”

His eyes flicked briefly past me, into the apartment. “You’re alone.”

“I prefer it that way.”

Another pause. He shifted his weight slightly, lowering his voice. “There was an incident this evening.”

My spine straightened. “What kind of incident?”

“A man was flagged by building security,” he said. “Loitering near the entrance. Asked the concierge about you by name.”

The air seemed to thin.

“I don’t know anyone here,” I said slowly.

“I know.”

I stared at him, searching his face for something—anything—that told me this was an overreaction. A misunderstanding. But Noah didn’t exaggerate. Ever.

“Did he say anything else?” I asked.

“No.” His jaw tightened. “But it was enough.”

Silence stretched between us.

Finally, I stepped back. “Come in.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before crossing the threshold. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Up close, his presence filled the space—solid, controlled, grounded. He removed his coat and draped it over the back of a chair without being asked, eyes cataloguing the room in quick, efficient sweeps.

“You have good taste,” he said quietly.

I didn’t answer.

He turned to face me. “I’ve arranged for additional security on your floor.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know.”

That irritated me more than it should have. “You don’t get to make decisions for me, Noah.”

“I’m not,” he replied evenly. “I’m making them around you.”

I folded my arms. “That sounds like a distinction without a difference.”

Something flickered in his eyes then—approval, maybe. Or amusement.

“Lock your door,” he said instead. “Don’t answer it unless you’re expecting someone. If you get another call from an unknown number, don’t ignore it. Let me know.”

I scoffed. “And how exactly do you expect me to do that?”

He pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and held it out to me. His number was already on the screen.

I stared at it, then at him.

“You’re assuming I want to call you.”

“I’m assuming you will if you need to.”

I took the phone, typed my name into his contacts, and handed it back without a word.

He glanced at the screen. Aurora Hayes. His thumb hovered there for a moment before he locked it.

“Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll be nearby.”

My brows drew together. “Nearby how?”

He met my gaze fully now, his voice low, certain. “Close enough.”

He picked up his coat and headed for the door. Before opening it, he paused.

“This city isn’t what you think it is,” he added. “Not yet.”

Then he was gone.

The door closed behind him, the lock sliding back into place.

I stood there long after, heart thudding harder than it had any right to.

Outside, somewhere far below, a car horn blared.

Inside, my phone buzzed once.

A new message.

Unknown number.