HIS ROAD TO RUIN

Someone Is watching.

(Naya's POV)

I keep the note in my pocket the entire ride home.

I don’t take it out. I don’t need to. I already memorized the five words and somehow, just knowing they’re there feels worse than reading them again.

The worst part isn’t the warning. It’s that whoever left it knows about Dante. They know what my father did. They knew where my car was parked. And now I’m starting to wonder if they know me better than I know myself.

Dante stepped away when I came down from the car, his back looking tense and his jaw tightly clenched, making me wonder what's on his mind.

The house is too quiet when I step inside.

Dante is already standing by the windows, hands in his pockets, and he turns the second the door clicks shut. His eyes drop immediately to the hand I’ve shoved into my jacket pocket, and his jaw ticks once.

“Naya,” he says, his voice calm but too careful, like he’s holding something back. “What is that?”

I almost pretend I didn’t hear him and keep walking.

“I asked you a question,” his voice drops an octave lower.

I hiss under my breath and pull the folded paper out. “Someone left this on my car,” I say, holding it out between us.

His expression doesn’t change much at first. But the second he sees the paper, the calm drains out of his face.

He crosses the room in two strides and stops in front of me. “Where did you find it?” he asks, his tone sharp now.

“Under my windshield wiper,” I answer, watching him.

“Were you alone?”

“Yes.” I hesitate. “I’d just come back from the café.”

His head lifts at that, eyes narrowing. “You went to the café alone?”

I fold my arms, already defensive. “Yes. And before you start with the rules, I know I wasn’t supposed to leave campus without telling you.”

“That’s not what concerns me,” he says quietly, and he reaches for the note.

I pause before putting it in his hand. His fingers brush mine as he takes it, and he reads it once. Then again. The silence that follows makes my stomach knot.

“You recognize it,” I say. It isn’t a question.

He doesn’t look up. “No.”

“You looked at it like you do,” I press, stepping closer.

His eyes finally meet mine. “I’ve seen messages like this before,” he admits.

The word hits me like cold water. “What do you mean?”

“Someone left notes like this before,” he says. His jaw tightens.

“How many?”

“Three.”

I stare at him. The room feels off balance. “Three?” I repeat.

He folds the paper carefully and sets it on the table. “Yes.”

“My father told me I’d gotten threats, but he never said there were three,” I say, my voice thinner than I want it to be.

“He didn’t tell you everything,” Dante says simply.

I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That seems to be the theme of my life lately.”

Dante doesn’t answer. He just watches me.

“So what did they say?” I ask, nodding toward the note.

“They were different,” he says after a beat.

“Tell me.”

He studies me for a second, then sighs. “The first one told you to stay away from certain places. The second said to stop asking questions. The third said you’d regret ignoring the warning.”

A chill runs down my arms. “And nobody thought I should know that?”

“You are safer without knowing,” he says.

“No,” I snap. “I am easier to control without knowing.”

His expression hardens. “You think this is about control?”

“I think everyone keeps deciding what I’m allowed to know about my own life,” I shoot back.

Dante drags in a slow breath. “You’re not being kept in the dark because anyone wants to control you.”

“Then why?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer right away. That silence says more than words.

“You know something,” I whisper.

“I know enough to know whoever’s sending these is dangerous,” he says.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know,” he says, and holds my gaze.

I cross my arms. “You know why they’re doing it.”

“That’s different,” he says.

The answer twists in my gut. “Why?”

He doesn't reply.

“You keep saying you don’t know,” I say, frustration rising. “But you knew someone would be waiting for me yesterday. You knew about the people at the auditorium. You knew about these messages before I ever saw them. How much do you actually know?”

His eyes darken. “Enough to tell you to stop walking into situations alone.”

“That still isn’t an answer.”

“No,” he says. “It isn’t.”

His honesty throws me. I was expecting another deflection.

Instead he looks at me with something I can’t name. Not pity. Not fear. It looks like responsibility, and somehow that’s worse.

I reach for the note again, but his hand comes down over mine before I can touch it. “Give that to your father,” he says.

“No,” I say immediately.

His brows pull together.

“This is evidence,” he says. “It needs to go to your father.”

“Then I’ll give it to him when he gets home,” I say, pulling my hand back. “I’m keeping it until then.”

“You shouldn’t be carrying it around,” he argues.

“Why? Because someone might leave another one?”

“Yes,” he says, and the word is so immediate that it kills my sarcasm.

He lets go. I fold the paper and slip it back into my pocket. “I’m going upstairs,” I tell him.

“You should stay downstairs until your father gets back,” he says.

“You’ll understand later,” he says quietly.

“I understand that you’re making my life worse,” I mutter.

“I’d rather have you angry with me than dead.”

I don’t have a response to that.

So I turn and head for the stairs.

Halfway up, I hear the low sound of an engine outside.

Dante moves instantly, stepping toward the window without touching the curtains. His whole posture changes.

“What is it?” I ask, coming back down beside him.

He lifts one hand, a silent stay back. I ignore it and move to the glass with him.

Across the street, beneath the trees, a black sedan is idling.

The windows are tinted too dark to see inside.

“How long has it been there?” I whisper.

“I noticed it when you came in.”

My heart kicks. “Could it be nothing?”

“It could,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he believes it.

We watch. No one gets out. No one approaches.

Then, without warning, the car pulls away and disappears down the street.

Dante keeps watching long after it’s gone.

“How did you know to look?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer.

“Dante,” I say, stepping in front of him. “You weren’t surprised when you saw it.”

“What are you asking?” he says, finally looking at me.

“How did you know someone was watching the house?”

“I didn’t,” he says.

“Yes, you did,” I insist. “You keep telling me I’m in danger but you never say why. You show up before anything happens. Every time I ask how you know, you change the subject.”

His expression shuts down.

I wait.

Finally he says, “Because people who want to hurt someone usually make mistakes.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He turns to walk away. I follow him to the bottom of the stairs. “Then tell me the truth.”

He stops, his back to me for a second. When he looks over his shoulder, his eyes are steady.

“The truth is that whoever is watching you is getting closer,” he says.

My throat tightens. “And you?”

He pauses for a second, yet doesn't reply.

Then he disappears upstairs, and I’m left standing there with one question I can’t shake:

If Dante is always one step ahead of the people hunting me, how does he know where they’re going?

And whose side is he really on?