Twenty-four minutes.
I'm being paranoid.
She's fine.
She's in a bar full of club members, surrounded by people who would die to protect her.
She probably ran into someone she knows, got caught up in conversation.
Lost track of time.
Forgot to text me back.
That's not like her, though. She knows how worried I've been.
She knows I'm watching.
Twenty-five minutes.
Fuck this.
I'm out the door and across the courtyard before I've consciously decided to move.
The afternoon sun is bright and warm, the compound still bustling with activity, but I don't see any of it.
My entire focus is on the entrance to Bubba's, on getting through that door and finding her.
My heart is beating too fast.
My palms are sweating.
These are physical symptoms I recognize—fear, anxiety, the body preparing for fight or flight.
But I've never felt them like this before.
Never felt them for another person.
Every protection detail I've ever run, every principal I've ever guarded, none of them made me feel like this.
Because none of them were her.
The bar is loud and crowded, the lunch rush still going strong.
I scan the room—every booth, every table, every face.
Looking for blonde hair and blue eyes and that smile that makes my chest ache.
She's not here.
She's not fucking here.
"Hey." I grab the bartender's attention, my voice sharper than I intended. "The woman who was sitting by the window. Blonde. Blue eyes. Where did she go?"
He frowns, trying to place who I'm talking about. "You mean the president's daughter? She left maybe... fifteen, twenty minutes ago?"
"Left where?"
"I don't know, man. Some woman came in, they talked for a minute, then they both walked out." He shrugs, unbothered. "Seemed like she knew her."
