She studies me for a long moment, like she's trying to decide if I'm human or just a walking wall of protocol. "You ever smile, Mack Hawthorne?"
"When the job's done."
She smirks. "Challenge accepted."
I don't rise to it. Instead, I take position by the door, arms crossed, eyes on the elevator panel.
The first package arrives at 1700 hours.
Room service knocks—standard protocol, but I make them wait while I check the cart through the peephole. Flowers. A massive bouquet of red roses wrapped in white ribbon, heart-shaped card tucked inside. Sender:Your Secret Admirer.
"Stay back," I order Indigo.
She ignores me, stepping closer out of curiosity. "It's probably just?—"
I rip the card free first. Plain white stock, typed message:Can't wait to see you bloom on stage. Wear something red for me.
My skin prickles. Too generic to be threatening on its own, but the timing's off. I lift the bouquet carefully, turning it over.
Something shifts inside the stems.
"Down!" I bark, shoving her behind the couch as I drop the flowers.
The bouquet detonates—not a real explosion, thank Christ, but close enough. A muffledpop, then confetti erupts in a glittering cloud, mixed with tiny metal shards that ping off the marble floor like shrapnel. Harmless in scale, but the message is clear: someone got past hotel security.
Indigo's on the floor beside me, eyes wide, breathing fast. A few flecks of confetti cling to her hair like snow. For the first time since we met, she looks rattled.
I haul her up by the arm—gentle but firm—and scan her for injuries. None. Good.
"You okay?" I ask, voice rougher than intended.
She nods, swallowing. "Yeah. Just... surprised."
I don't let go of her arm yet. "That's why the rules exist."
She meets my eyes, something shifting behind the bravado. "Point taken, bodyguard."
I release her, already pulling out my phone to call King. "We're locking this place down. No one in or out without my say-so."
As I coordinate with the team, I catch her watching me—really watching. Not mocking this time. Assessing.
And damn it, I feel it too. That spark. The one that has no place in a professional assignment.
Seven days.
I can survive a week.
But as the city lights pulse outside and confetti settles like fallout around us, I have the sinking feeling Cupid City—and Indigo Lyric—are about to make that timeline a hell of a lot harder.
THREE
INDIGO
I stare at the confetti settling on the marble floor like twisted snowflakes, my heart hammering so hard I swear it might crack a rib. The bouquet's remnants are scattered everywhere—red petals shredded, stems bent, and those tiny metal bits glinting under the chandelier light. It wasn't a real bomb, but it felt like one. My knees wobble, but I lock them straight. No way am I letting this show. I'm Indigo Lyric, supermodel extraordinaire, queen of the runway. Cracks aren't in my brand.
Mack's already on his phone, barking orders like he's directing a war zone. "King, suite compromised. Get a team up here now. Sweep the lobby, check deliveries. And get the hotel manager—I want logs on every entry."
His voice is gravel and command, cutting through the air. I watch him pace, all broad shoulders and coiled muscle under that black tactical shirt. God, he's gorgeous. Like, unfairly so. Square jaw, stubble that looks deliberate, eyes the color of stormy seas. The kind of man who could grace a billboard himself, but instead, he's built like a fortress. I hate how my pulse skips when he glances my way—not from fear, or not justfear. It's attraction, unwanted and sharp, slicing through the adrenaline. But I shove it down. He's my bodyguard, not my type. Too grumpy, too controlling. Too… gorgeous.
