The messages started on a Wednesday.

They came through her webcomic's contact form, which she rarely checked herself — Daniel's assistant ran a basic filter that caught reader mail and forwarded relevant items. The first one had been flagged as unusual: no message subject, a free email address, a single line of text that commented on her most recent chapter update in terms that were technically about the art and practically about her.

She had marked it as spam and moved on.

The second arrived Thursday. Different email address, similar register.

The third arrived Friday while she was having lunch.

She read all three over her coffee on Saturday morning and decided she was overreacting.

She mentioned it to Lucien on Saturday afternoon, in the way she mentioned things to him now — not asking for help, not performing concern, just narrating the geography of her week to the person who had become its most consistent listener. She expected him to say something reassuring and move on.

He read all three messages instead.

He read them with very careful attention, in a silence that lasted precisely long enough for her to register that it was not casual silence.

"This is the third," he said.

"Third, yes. Different addresses each time."

"Did you forward them to Daniel?"

"I was going to."

He set her phone down on the table between them with a controlled, deliberate movement.

"Please do that today," he said.

She looked at him. "You think it's something."

"I think three messages in four days from apparent strangers commenting on your physical appearance under the guise of art criticism is worth attention."

"It might just be one weird person."

"It might be," he agreed. "Or it might be someone beginning a pattern." His voice was even, which made the words feel more serious rather than less. "Forward them today."

She did.

Daniel's assistant forwarded them to their legal team and to the platform's moderation service within the hour, which was reassuring and also slightly alarming in that it confirmed that Daniel's team had an established process for this kind of thing, meaning it had happened to creators before.

By Sunday, the account had been suspended.

By Monday, the messages had stopped.

Elowen sat with that information for a day before realizing she was waiting for more of them. That specific held-breath quality of anticipating something unpleasant, even after the immediate thing had resolved.

She told Lucien on Monday evening.

"They stopped," she said.

"I know," he said.

She looked at him. "How do you know?"

A pause.

"I had someone monitor the platform over the weekend."

She set down her mug.

"You had someone monitor—"

"A digital security contact. Someone I work with regularly for Vale Group." His voice was calm. "I wanted to know if the accounts created new profiles. They didn't."

She sat with this.

"You did that," she said, "without telling me."

"I didn't want to concern you over the weekend unnecessarily."

"Lucien."

He looked at her.

"I'm not angry," she said, carefully. "I want to be clear that I understand why you did it, and I believe it came from—" She stopped. Started again. "But you can't manage things about my life without telling me. Even protective things."

He was quiet.

"You're right," he said.

The admission was immediate and complete, which was both better and more unsettling than an argument would have been.

"I don't like it when you're in situations that could be dangerous," he said. "I become—" He chose the word carefully. "Proactive."

"I noticed."

"The instinct precedes the consultation."

"I know." She looked at him. "I'm not asking you to stop caring. I'm asking you to include me."

He looked at her for a moment.

"Yes," he said.

"Okay," she said.

She picked up the mug again.

He was very still across from her, absorbing the conversation with the particular focused intensity of someone cataloguing not just the words but the meaning beneath them.

"Elowen," he said, after a while.

"Hm."

"I would have—" He stopped. "I would have removed the problem before it became something you needed to worry about."

"I know you would have."

"That isn't reassuring to you."

"It is and it isn't," she said honestly. "Both things at once."

He accepted that.

The candle between them burned steadily.

"Tell me next time," she said.

"Yes," he said.

She believed him, which was its own complicated piece of information about what she trusted and where.