I'm not sure if I'm angry or terrified. Maybe both.
But deep down, in the part I don't like admitting exists, there's a tiny, traitorous flicker of relief. Someone will be watching back. Someone trained. Someone who knows how to stop this before it gets worse.
Someone paid to protect me. I just hope he doesn’t get in my way of my breakout moment. This showcase is a big deal, and I won’t let anyone keep me from achieving my dream.
TWO
MACK
The private jet touches down at Cupid City International just after 1400 hours on February 7th, and I'm already counting the minutes until I can get the hell out of here. Seven days. That's the contract. A week of playing babysitter to a supermodel who probably thinks danger is a bad review, then I'm wheels up, back to the real mission. My older brother, Nash visited a few days ago. He finally got a solid lead on Dad's last known location. My other brothers are in as well. Crewe's running point on logistics, Sinclair's pulling strings with old contacts, Banks is on tech, Jace and Colt are prepping gear. The Hawthorne brothers are finally moving on the ghost that's haunted us since I was fifteen. This gig? It's just a paycheck. A very annoying, glitter-dusted paycheck.
I step closer, scanning the private hangar out of habit. Black SUV waiting, tinted windows, engine idling. Heartline Security's local team already swept it twice. Good. I don't trust anyone else's eyes but mine.
Indigo Lyric emerges from the jet, all long legs and effortless grace, like the runway followed her off the plane. She's wearingoversized sunglasses, a cream trench coat cinched tight at the waist, and heels that click like gunfire on concrete. Her dark hair spills over one shoulder in perfect waves. The paparazzi are kept behind a barrier fifty yards out, but they're still shouting her name like it's sacred.
She spots me immediately. Her lips curve into that practiced, camera-ready smile, but her eyes say something else—annoyance, maybe amusement. "You must be the muscle," she says, voice smooth as silk and twice as expensive.
"Mack Hawthorne." I keep it short, professional. No handshake offered. "Let's move."
She arches a perfect brow. "No 'nice to meet you'? No 'welcome to Cupid City'?"
"Welcome to Cupid City," I deadpan. "Now get in the vehicle before someone decides to make you the next viral headline for the wrong reasons."
She rolls her eyes but complies, sliding into the back seat like it's a throne. I take shotgun, nodding to the driver—local Heartline guy named King. We pull out smoothly, merging into the ridiculous pink-and-red traffic that's already clogging the streets. Heart-shaped balloons bob from lampposts. Billboards screamValentine Lingerie Showcase: Love in Every Curve.Even the stoplights flash pink.
I hate this place.
The drive to the hotel is quiet except for the soft click of Indigo scrolling her phone. I watch the mirrors, the side streets, the vehicles around us. Nothing stands out, but my gut's been humming since the briefing. Some low-level stalker shit has been escalating—anonymous notes, gifts delivered to heragency, a few too many "accidental" run-ins with the same face in different cities. Heartline flagged it as credible enough for 24/7 protection during her showcase run. Hence me.
We arrive at the Crescent Moon Tower, the penthouse level already secured. I escort her through the private elevator, my hand hovering near the small of her back—not touching, just close enough to shove her behind me if needed. She smells like expensive vanilla and something sharper, like citrus after a storm. It's distracting. I ignore it.
The doors open directly into the suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the glittering skyline, Cupid City's lights already winking like they're in on some cosmic joke. Rose petals scattered on every surface. A massive heart-shaped arrangement on the coffee table. And one king-sized bed dominating the master bedroom, draped in red silk and sprinkled with more petals.
Indigo stops short. "They really committed to the theme, didn't they?"
"Insurance photos," I mutter, already moving to check the perimeter. "Media's running a story that you're here with a mystery man. We sell the couple angle, kill the rumor before it starts. One bed sells better than two."
She laughs—low, throaty, and entirely too aware of how it lands. "So you're my fake boyfriend now? That's adorable."
"I'm your bodyguard," I correct, voice flat. "The fake part is for show. Don't get ideas."
"Oh, Mack." She shrugs off her coat, revealing a fitted black dress that hugs every curve like it was custom-made to torture me. "You’re not my type."
I don't respond. I finish the sweep—balcony clear, closets empty, bathroom secure. When I return to the living area, she's kicked off her heels and is standing barefoot by the window, staring out at the city like she owns it.
"Rules," I say, pulling out my phone to log the arrival. "You don't go anywhere without me. You don't open doors, windows, packages. You don't post locations in real time. You listen when I say move."
She turns, crossing her arms under her chest in a way that makes the dress pull tighter. "And if I don't?"
"Then I carry you. Over my shoulder if necessary. Your choice."
Her lips twitch. "Kinky."
I give her the look I reserve for rookies who think they're funny. "This isn't a game, Ms. Lyric. Someone's been leaving you gifts that aren't so sweet anymore."
She sobers slightly. "I know. The notes are... creative. But I'm not scared. I've dealt with worse."
"Famous last words." I pocket my phone. "Get settled. Showcase rehearsal's in three hours. I'll be right here."
