Page 5 of Prey

Grey has been inside his apartment. Of course he has.

I feel the old familiar heat of jealousy, rage, something twisted and sharp flares under my ribs. I’ve been waiting three years, and the little mouse broke into his penthouse in less than six months.

I should be impressed. I’m not.

I scroll in my own file. It’s neatly organized: timestamps, stills, transcripts. Evidence. Power. Leo would be horrified if he saw what I’ve done with the access he gave me, but Leo isn’t here. Leo is useful. That’s his defining trait. Not brilliant, not ruthless. Useful. The type of man who believes women when they say they’re afraid.

Three weeks ago, I walked into his tiny office with its dying plant, family photos and sat down, hands folded, shoulders tight. Told him someone was following me.

"I think it’s a former client." I said. "I think he got my home address. He keeps showing up in the lobby after hours. I don’t feel safe."

Leo’s face had gone pale. "Of course, Ms. Sophie. We’ll increase coverage. We’ll look into it."

I let my voice tremble, just enough. I let my eyes gloss with unshed tears. I let him see exactly the kind of prey he’s trained to protect. "Is there a way, I asked, to…monitor the floors more closely? I don’t want to bother Mr. Micheals with this. You know how busy he is. If I could just see…who’s around."

It took ten minutes. Ten minutes of feigned vulnerability and careful prompting, and Leo handed me the goods. Door logs, feed access, and admin passwords, "temporarily, just until you feel safe."

I’ve never felt safer in my life.

I swipe back to the current feed. Grey is still there. Still staring at his screen like it holds everything he’s ever wanted.

He doesn’t know I’ve watched him press his forehead against Cain’s office door like it’s holy. Doesn’t know I’ve seen him stand in the empty hallway at midnight, hand on the handle, backing away like someone has tethered him there with invisible rope.

Doesn’t know a board member has a private archive of his worst impulses.

On my phone is a secondary folder. Not the official security files I could show in a board meeting, not the sanitized logs and neatly timestamped anomalies. A personal file.

Grey.

I open it now. Scroll past the images until I reach my favorite sequence: stills from camera 15, taken over six nights.

Night one: Grey outside Cain’s office, just standing.

Night three: his hand on the doorframe, knuckles white.

Night five: his forehead pressed to the wood, eyes closed.

Night six: Cain watching him back.

That was the pivot point. For months, this had been amusing. A secretary with a crush, an obsessive little man who thought stealing paperclips counted as intimacy. I let him play. It wasn’t my problem.

Then the angle of Cain’s gaze changed.

The first time I saw it was in the elevator footage. Two people, a closed box of mirrored walls and bad music. Cain on his phone, usual bored expression, half-listening to someone drone about projections. Grey in the corner, pretending not to stare.

Halfway between floors, Cain hung up. Put his phone away. Turned his head.

Looked at him.

Not the brief, polite acknowledgement he gives every employee who has done something useful that day. A real look. Focused. Measuring. Curious.

I’ve seen that look on his face before, in his office, when he studies a new acquisition target and decides whether to gut it or keep it.

Seeing it directed at Grey changed the game.

Chapter 4B

Cain