"How long?"
Two words. All I can manage.
His expression doesn't change. "Angelina—"
"How. Long." My voice shakes. My whole body shakes. "How long have you been watching my daughter?"
His jaw tightens. Something shifts in those dark eyes, not guilt, exactly, but something adjacent to it. Something that looks almost like grief.
"We should talk downstairs."
"No." I step toward him, and he actually takes a step back. Good. "We should talk right here. Right now. How long?"
The silence stretches. My pulse hammers in my ears.
"Seven years."
The admission hits me like a punch.
Seven years. Seven years. Chesca is eight. He's been watching since she was—
"You should sit down."
"Don't tell me what to do." But my legs are shaking, and the hallway seems too narrow suddenly, the walls pressing in. "You've been watching us for seven years? Since she was a baby? Since—"
"Since I joined CPG." His voice is calm. Too calm. "Since I had access to the resources. Since I could keep you safe without—"
"Without what?" The laugh that escapes me sounds unhinged. "Without telling me? Without asking? Without giving me any choice?"
"Yes."
Just that. No excuses. No justifications.
"You watched my daughter grow up through a camera lens." The words taste like acid. "You watched me. What? struggle? You didn't—you never—"
"I wanted to."
Three words. Quiet. Raw.
"I wanted to, every single day. I wanted to knock on your door and tell you I never stopped—" He cuts himself off. Breathes. When he speaks again, his voice is controlled, that infuriating calm back in place. "But I couldn't. Not without compromising the surveillance. Not without putting you at risk."
"At risk from what?"
"We should talk downstairs."
I want to scream. Want to hit him. Want to demand answers right here in this hallway with my daughter sleeping ten feet away.
But Chesca is sleeping ten feet away.
And this conversation, whatever it is, whatever it's about to become, isn't something she should hear.
I push past him toward the stairs. My shoulder brushes his arm, and heat sparks through me, and I hate it, hate myself for feeling anything other than fury.
"Fine," I bite out. "Downstairs. And you're going to tell me everything. Every single thing you've been hiding. Or I swear to God, Cole, I will make sure you never work in this city again."
I don't wait for his response. Just head down the stairs, each step feeling like I'm descending into something I can't come back from.
Behind me, his footsteps follow. Patient and measured.