When I return to the living room, Jade is still there, watching Mateo work. She looks up as I approach, something unreadable in her green eyes.
"We'll find whoever did this," I tell her, keeping my voice professional, controlled. "But until we do, things are going to change around here."
"I know," she says simply.
"It won't be comfortable. Or convenient. But it's necessary."
"I understand." She holds my gaze steadily. "Thank you... for everything."
The simple gratitude catches me off guard. "Of course."
"Not everyone would," she continues. "Not everyone has."
I don't ask what she means. I don't need to. The pieces of her past that she's shared, the references to people who should have protected her but didn't, paint a clear enough picture.
"We've got you," I say, including the whole team in my statement, pushing the conversation back to professional ground. "And we'll keep you safe. It'sour job."
She nods once, accepting both the promise and the distance I'm trying to establish.
As I turn away to coordinate with Declan, I feel her eyes on me still, sensing the shift in my demeanor, the renewed formality. It's necessary. It's the right call. It's the only way I can ensure her safety.
But as I walk away, the weight of what I'm sacrificing settles heavy on my shoulders. These past three weeks, as professional boundaries gradually relaxed and something deeper began to form, they felt like the beginning of something. Something I'm now deliberately walking away from.
The realization stops me cold: I've made this choice before. Put duty above connection, professional obligation above personal desire. And while it's the right decision, the responsible decision, I can't help wondering what it will cost me this time.
Because watching Jade stand in her violated sanctuary, facing her fear with quiet determination, I recognize an uncomfortable truth I've been avoiding for weeks: this isn't just a job anymore.
And she isn't just a client.
Which makes her the most dangerous assignment I've ever accepted.
14
JADE
"Absolutely not."
Two simple words, delivered in that infuriatingly calm, authoritative tone Ethan has perfected. The one that makes my blood boil, especially when it's directed at me as if I were a child rather than his employer.
"It wasn't a request," I counter, keeping my voice steady despite the frustration building in my chest. "I'm informing you of my plans. The gallery opening is tonight, and I'm going."
He stands near the windows, arms folded across that irritatingly broad chest, jaw tight enough to crack, the only visible sign that his legendary control is slipping. The past week has changed things between us. Between all of us, really. The discovery of the camera in my living room transformed the comfortable dynamic we'd built into something colder, more distant. Professional boundaries snapped back into place with brutal efficiency.
No more late-night kitchen conversations. No more shared jokes at breakfast. No more runs with Declan that ended with philosophical discussions at the summit. No more tech tutorials from Mateo that inevitably devolved into absurd stories from his childhood.
Just security protocols, threat assessments, and suffocating vigilance.
"The security situation hasn't changed," Ethan says, his blue eyes locked on mine across the living room. The same living room where someone watched me without my knowledge. "We still don't know who planted that camera or delivered those photos. Until we do, unnecessary public appearances aren't advisable."
"This isn't unnecessary," I insist, holding my ground. "This is my career, my passion. The exhibition is from a new artist that critics are calling revolutionary. Missing this debut would be professional suicide."
What I don't say, what I can't say, is that the works are mine. Years of secret photography, images I've created under a carefully guarded pseudonym. Sin Jay. A part of my life that belongs only to me, not to the brand or the industry or the public. My one true form of expression that's never been tainted by others' expectations.
"Your safety takes precedence over networking," Ethan counters. "The gallery will be crowded, with multiple entry points, limited security oversight, and no established guest list. It's a tactical nightmare."
"Then make it work," I snap, my patience finally fraying. "That's what I pay you for, isn't it? To figure out the security so I can live my life? Or did I misunderstand the service I'm buying?"
His expression darkens, and I know I've struck a nerve. The reminder that this is, at its core, a business relationship seems to bother him more than it should. Good. Let him feel some of the frustration I've been drowning in for the past week.
