Gloria hesitates, then takes a deep breath. "The attack in New York wasn't isolated, Jade. There have been other... incidents."
I freeze. "What incidents?"
"Someone has been leaving things for you. At photoshoot locations, at the hotel in Milan last month, at the gate of this house..." Her voice trails off.
"What things? Why didn't you tell me?" My heart races, the calm facade I maintain cracking at the edges.
"I thought I could protect you." Gloria looks down at her hands. "They started as wilted flowers, then notes. At first, I thought it was just an enthusiastic fan, but they've been getting more personal. More... threatening."
The room suddenly feels too warm. "How personal?"
Gloria reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small envelope. "This arrived at the agency yesterday, addressed to you."
I take it with trembling fingers. Inside is a simple white card with elegant handwriting: "Missing you, Little Doll. I'm coming for you."
The blood drains from my face. My knees weaken, and I sink onto the nearest chair, the card falling from my suddenly nerveless fingers.
"Little Doll," I whisper, the nickname hitting me like a physical blow.
Memories I've spent years burying come rushing back: a hand on my shoulder that slowly moved lower, a voice telling me how special I was, how I was his little doll.
I was only fourteen when it started. At first, it seemed innocent enough, just affection and kindness. And I welcomed it, starving for attention and tenderness.
Gloria's at my side immediately, her hand on my shoulder. "I know," she whispers. "That's why I called them, Jade. That's why you need protection."
"It can't be him," I say in a hushed tone meant only for Gloria. "He's dead. We know he's dead."
"It's someone who knows," Gloria agrees quietly. "Someone who knows what he called you."
The reality of the situation sinks in slowly, like a stone through murky water.
Someone out there knows things about me that I've never spoken about publicly. There were only three peoplewho knew about that nickname: me, Gloria, and him. And he is dead.
It feels like he's reached back from the grave, whispering through someone else's mouth.
I look up. The three men watch this exchange with varying degrees of confusion and concern. Declan, the one with the scar, picks up the card from where it fell and reads it, his expression darkening. He passes it to Cross without a word.
"Miss Sinclair," Cross says after reading it, his voice gentler but still professional, "I understand your reluctance to have security, but this suggests someone has gotten close to you. Close enough to harm you. The attack in New York could have been fatal. The next one might be."
"How dare you keep this from me?" I turn to Gloria, anger replacing fear. "These are threats against me, and you decided I didn't need to know? What else haven't you told me?"
Gloria looks stricken. "I was trying to protect you. After everything you've been through..."
"I'm not that little girl anymore!" I snap, rising to my feet. "I don't need to be sheltered from reality. I need to know what's happening in my own life!"
"Miss Sinclair," Cross interjects calmly, "your anger is understandable, but right now we need to focus on your safety."
I laugh bitterly. "My safety. Right."
I take a deep breath, trying to regain my composure. "Fine. What exactly do you propose?"
Cross glances at his colleagues before answering. "Given the personal nature of these threats and the fact that someone has already made one attempt on your life, you need comprehensive protection. That means security protocols, controlled access to your schedule and whereabouts, and round-the-clock presence."
"I am not having three men following me everywhere," I state firmly. "I value what little privacy I have left."
"We understand that," Cross responds, "but there are compromises that can be made while still ensuring your safety."
Mateo, who's been quiet since his failed attempt at charm, speaks up. "We're professionals. Despite what you overheard, this is what we do. It's our job."
