Silence. Then Etta's voice sharpens. "Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Where are you now?"
"Home. Living room."
"Stay put. I'm coming over."
She arrives twenty minutes later in her silver Audi, heels clicking like gunfire on the driveway. Etta's in her late forties, sharp cheekbones, sharper instincts. She's been with me since I was nineteen, back when I was just another tall girl with good bone structure. She storms in, pulls me into a quick, fierce hug, then holds me at arm's length to scan for damage.
"You look pale," she says.
"I feel pale."
She makes tea while I sit on the sofa again. The note is already with the cops, but I describe it word for word. Etta listens without interrupting, stirring sugar into her cup like she's plotting.
"This isn't random," she says finally. "Not with the Showcase coming up."
"I know."
She sets her mug down hard enough to clink. "You can't stay alone. Not until we figure this out."
"Well..." I don’t finish my sentence, because well, I am alone. Have been since Derek and I broke up.
"Then we get security. Professional. Discreet."
I open my mouth to argue, but the protest dies when I remember the note. The way the house felt violated even after the police left.
Etta doesn't wait for permission. She's already on her phone, scrolling contacts. "I know someone in Cupid City. Heartline Security. Run by Cassian Rhodes. Ex-military, high-end clientele. Models, actors, politicians. They specialize in close protection without turning you into a circus."
"Cassian Rhodes?" The name sounds like a cologne ad.
"He's good. Very good. I used him for that actress last year—the one with the stalker ex. No incidents. No drama. He’s got a whole team of men. Capable men. He’ll have someone meet us at the airport when you land, shadow you through the Showcase, stay close until we know this creep's not escalating."
I rub my temples. "Etta, I don't want a babysitter. I can handle?—"
"You can handle a lot. You can't handle someone who triggers your alarm and leaves creepy love notes on your counter." She softens her tone. "This is precautionary. You focus on the runway. Let security handle the shadows."
I stare at my cooling tea. Part of me wants to fight—I'm Indigo Lyric, I walk in six-inch heels under spotlights, I don't need protecting. But another part remembers the click of that latch. The way the air changed when someone else was in my space.
"Fine," I mutter. "But if he's some meathead who hovers, I'm firing him myself."
Etta smiles, small and victorious. "He won’t be a meathead. You'll see."
She texts Rhodes right there, arranging everything. Within minutes, her phone pings with confirmation. Someone named Mack Hawthorne will be at Cupid City International when my flight lands. Tall, dark-haired, former special forces. References impeccable. Discretion guaranteed.
I lean back against the cushions, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline's crashing, leaving me hollow. Etta stays another hour, making sure I'm locked in, alarm set, spare key in her purse. She hugs me again before she leaves.
"Try to sleep," she says at the door. "You've got your shoe fitting in the morning."
I nod as I watch her taillights disappear down the street.
Alone again, I wander to the bedroom, flip on every light. I check the windows, the closet, under the bed like a child afraid ofmonsters. Then I crawl under the covers, phone clutched in my hand.
The note replays in my head.I'm always watching.
I pull the duvet higher. My pulse is still too fast.
