C9 The Shift Beneath the Surface

There were few places Bishop King allowed himself to be undone, and his penthouse study was one of them.

The lights were dimmed, and the heavy scent of aged scotch lingered in the air like a memory that refused to leave. The city glimmered outside his floor-to-ceiling windows, a blur of movement and distance. His hands were tucked deep in his pockets, his jaw tight with restraint, the usual confidence in his shoulders pulled taut.

He hadn’t been sleeping well.

Not since the letter.

Not since Rose.

She’d asked for time off, just a few days to breathe. He told himself he’d turned it down because of logistics, because of company protocol. But even as the words had left his mouth, some part of him had recoiled from them.

The truth? It had nothing to do with work.

He didn’t want her to leave. Not even for a moment.

And that terrified him.

He poured another inch of whiskey into his glass, the amber liquid catching the light. A quieter man might’ve admitted it aloud but Bishop wasn’t a man of quiet truths. His truths roared, demanded, and shattered. They did not whisper, and they certainly didn’t beg.

But Rose was like water gentle, patient, and somehow unrelenting. And somewhere along the line, she had seeped into places he thought were closed off for good.

He hadn’t planned for her.

That night at the bar? A mistake, a moment of weakness. Yet here they were. Weeks in, and she was still on his mind at the strangest times her laugh echoing in the hallway, the way she fiddled with her necklace when nervous, or how she always greeted the cleaning staff by name.

He saw her. And maybe that was the problem.

A knock pulled him from his thoughts.

It was Malcolm, his assistant an older man with a silver beard and eyes that had seen too much. “Sir, there’s something you need to see.”

Bishop turned with a quiet grunt. “It can wait.”

“I think you’ll want to see this now.”

Malcolm handed over a sleek black folder. No label. No seal. Just a thin, unobtrusive file. But when Bishop flipped it open, something cold coiled at the base of his spine.

Photos.

Rose.

On her balcony. At the coffee shop below her apartment. Walking home at dusk.

Time-stamped. Taken from different angles. Someone was following her. Again.

Bishop’s fingers curled around the edges of the file.

“This came from a third-party private investigator,” Malcolm said cautiously. “Not one of ours. It was anonymously dropped at reception an hour ago.”

“Did anyone see who ?”

“No cameras picked up the delivery. Whoever it was knew what they were doing.”

Bishop’s mind raced. Damien. That name kept floating around like a ghost. But even he wouldn’t be this brazen. This calculated.

He took a slow breath. “Is she safe?”

“For now, yes. But this means someone else is watching her. Someone who doesn’t want us to know who they are.”

He clenched his jaw. For the first time in a long time, Bishop felt something deeper than fear or anger. He felt exposed. Vulnerable.

And it wasn’t because of the threat.

It was because it wasn’t just a threat to Rose.

It was a threat to his Rose.

Meanwhile, across the city, Lauren Parke was curled up on her couch, glass of wine in hand, watching a vintage crime drama with one eye while scrolling through her messages with the other.

Rose had texted earlier, saying she was journaling and feeling calmer tonight. Lauren had smiled at that genuinely, for once. There was something about the slow, unassuming rhythm of their friendship that soothed her.

But lately, Lauren had begun to feel something else creeping in. Not jealousy no, not anymore. That had passed. This was more complex.

It was guilt.

And a sinking feeling that her secrets weren’t buried as deep as she thought.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:

“We need to talk about what we know. Time’s running out.”

Her heart thudded against her ribs. She dropped the wineglass, barely noticing it shatter.

Bishop stood motionless long after Malcolm had left the room, the file still clutched in his hand. The weight of the photos pressed against him like bricks evidence of something he could no longer ignore. Someone was watching her. And not just out of curiosity.

This was calculated. Predatory.

He moved slowly to his desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out a second folder one that contained the brief file he had ordered on Rose the week she was hired. Back when he thought she was just another intern with a soft voice and a smart brain. Back when he hadn’t touched her. Back before she turned into something personal.

He laid both files side by side and stared at them.

Rose Hill. Twenty-four. Grew up in Connecticut. Journalism major. A clean record. Too clean. Not even a single unpaid parking ticket. A woman who kept to herself, who said little unless asked. But who, in subtle ways, had turned his world inside out.

A strange ache throbbed at the base of his skull.

He hated this feeling. The way she made him feel. Or worse, how deeply he wanted to protect her something he hadn’t allowed himself to want for anyone since

No. He shut the thought down.

Bishop exhaled sharply and picked up his phone.

“Marcus,” he barked as soon as his head of security answered. “I need a full scan on every camera surrounding Rose Hill’s apartment. Six-block radius. And pull any unfamiliar heat signatures from the last twenty-four hours.”

Marcus didn’t hesitate. “On it.”

Bishop hung up and sat back. His fingers tapped absently on the edge of the desk. Outside, the city was still buzzing, but he barely noticed. He was already somewhere else in the room across from Rose’s, remembering the tired shadows under her eyes, the hesitation in her smile. He’d dismissed her request because that’s what he was trained to do. Control. Maintain. Keep things tight.

But she wasn’t a thing to manage.

She was a woman, fraying quietly at the edges.

He reached for his tumbler and stared at the amber reflection of the chandelier above. What would she say if he showed up at her door tonight not as her boss, but just as a man? No questions. No expectations. Just presence.

He swallowed hard.

It wasn’t just about Rose anymore. Someone had made her a target. And whoever it was… had also made a mistake.

Because Bishop King didn’t lose. And he sure as hell didn’t let anyone touch what was his.

At the same time, across the city, Lauren paced the length of her apartment, her heart still racing from the anonymous message. Her fingers hovered over her phone screen as she debated deleting it or calling Rose. But something in her gut told her it was time.

No more secrets.

No more silence.

If Bishop didn’t already know who Damien was, she did.

And if this went wrong…

She’d lose everything.