No smart remarks. No eye roll. No stiff silence wrapped in passive aggression.
Just her… silent, focused, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her skirt like she’s preparing for something she doesn’t want to face.
I let the quiet sit for a few blocks.
The S-Class handles smoothly, absorbing the chaos of the Vegas Strip like it’s nothing. She barely moves with the motion, but I can see it in her leg, tension thrumming beneath skin.
“Is this what it’s going to be now?” she finally asks, voice soft. “Me. Being delivered like a package.”
“If that’s what keeps you alive,” I say.
She exhales, short and sharp. Then, “Right. Asset protection. Forgot.”
Her sarcasm’s a little weaker today.
So is her anger.
She’s scared. And she trusts me enough toshow it.
That part matters more than I want it to.
I take Charleston east, then cut down two side streets to get a cleaner line of sight on the bank. Avoid the cameras. Circle the back lot once. Just in case.
When I finally pull up, it’s across the street, two buildings down, angled so I can see every entrance without being obvious. Shaded glass, blocked line of sight from most traffic.
Mary glances at the bank doors.
Then at me.
“You’re not leaving, are you?”
“No.”
“Do you always hover like this?”
“Only when the threat is real.”
She watches me for a long second. Then nods.
And that nod—that tiny, resigned movement—tells me more than anything she’s said so far.
She believes me.
That’s new, too.
“You’ll check in through the bracelet. Noon. Three. Five. Text me when you’re leaving. If anything feels off before that, speak. I’ll hear it.”
She doesn’t argue. Just reaches for the door, then pauses.
“Do you really think someone’s going to try something today?”
I meet her eyes. “If they do, they won’t get a second shot.”
She blinks.
Then climbs out.
The door shuts with a quiet click, and she walks toward the building. Not quickly. Not slowly. Just… steady. Like someone who’s still deciding which version of herself she’s going to be.
