She studies me for a long moment, her green eyes narrowed. I keep my face impassive, waiting.
"Fine," she says finally. "But we do it here, in the gym, and you train my team also. You also teach Sophie and Gloria some self defense."
"Me?" Sophie squeaks. I glance at the assistant, who looks startled at being mentioned.
"Yes," Jade confirms. "You should learn too. In case..." She doesn't finish the thought, but she doesn't need to. In case whoever is after her comes for the people around her too.
It's the first thing she's said that makes me think there might be more to Jade Sinclair than the Ice Queen persona. She's thinking about protecting her team, not just herself.
She turns away, dismissing me. "Sophie will show you out."
As Sophie leads me back to the door, I can't help but wonder what I've just gotten myself into. I've never offered to personally train a client before. Never inserted myself into their daily routine like this. It's unprofessional, unnecessary, and bound to complicate an already complicated situation.
Walking back to the pool house, I try to rationalize my actions. It's about security. About giving her tools to protect herself. About doing the job properly. But evenas I think it, I know there's something else, something about the way her eyes flashed when she was angry, the determination in her stance despite her fear, the bruise that makes me want to find whoever hurt her and make them pay.
Last night I called Ethan out for acting out of character, for letting this job, this woman, affect his judgment after less than a day. Now here I am, not even twenty-four hours after meeting Jade Sinclair, volunteering for close physical contact three times a week. What the hell is it about her that's making both of us break our own rules?
"Fuck my life," I mutter as I push open the door to the pool house, already dreading having to explain to Ethan why I've just become the world's most overpaid self-defense instructor.
5
JADE
Three days of hiding in my own home.
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, taking inventory. The bruise at my hairline has faded to a sickly yellow-green, less dramatic but somehow more pitiful looking. The ache in my ribs when I breathe too deeply has subsided to a dull throb. Physical recovery seems to be progressing on schedule.
Mental recovery? That's another story entirely.
I step back into my bedroom. Late morning sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the canyon. The view that normally brings me peace now feels like a liability. The rustle of leaves, the occasional glimpse of wildlife, the ever-changing play of light and shadow seem like threats. Too exposed. Too many places someone could hide, watching.
For three days, I've limited my movements to the areas of the house where I'm least likely to encounter myunwanted houseguests. Breakfast at six, before they're active. Working in my studio during their security checks. Late dinners after they've retreated to the pool house. It's exhausting, this choreographed avoidance dance, but preferable to facing those men.
Especially the quiet one. Declan.
The way he looked at me during our confrontation three days ago left me unsettled in a way I can't quite define. Like he could see straight through the carefully constructed facade I've spent years perfecting. Not afraid, exactly. Just... seen. I hate being seen.
Though if I'm being completely honest with myself, it's not just Declan who's been on my mind. There's something equally unsettling about Ethan's steady, measuring gaze, as if he's constantly calculating risks and possibilities. And even Mateo, for all his initial prejudice, has a certain direct way of looking at me that makes me feel exposed in ways I'm not used to.
Three different men, three different kinds of discomfort. And something else I refuse to name.
A gentle knock interrupts my thoughts.
"Jade? It's me."
Gloria. Despite my self-imposed isolation, I can't bring myself to shut her out. Not Gloria.
"Come in," I call, settling onto the window seat, tucking my legs beneathme.
She enters carrying a tray with tea and toast, setting it on the small table beside me. At fifty-three, Gloria Hayes carries herself with the same elegant posture that made her a sought-after model in the nineties. Silver threads now weave through her dark hair, laugh lines frame her eyes, but she still has that presence that commands attention without demanding it.
"You need to eat something more substantial than toast," she chides gently, taking a seat in the armchair across from me.
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten properly in three days. This isn't you." She pours tea for both of us, the familiar ritual comforting in its normalcy. "This can't continue, Jade."
I accept the cup she offers, warming my hands around the delicate porcelain. "What can't continue? My reluctance to share my home with three strange men?"
