"Are you jealous, Jade?"
"You wish."
He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Because if you are, I have to say, it looks good on you."
I scoff, but my cheeks flush. "You're insufferable."
"It takes one to know one." He's smiling now. Actually smiling. And it ruins me.
"Besides, she is not my type."
The unexpected admission sends a rush of warmth through me that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way he's looking at me. Like I'm the only person in the crowded gallery, like the professional boundaries he's been so carefully maintaining are suddenly paper-thin.
"No?" I find myself asking. "What is your type?"
His gaze holds mine, something unspoken but unmistakable passing between us. "I think you might have some idea."
Standing here, surrounded by my secret work, with Ethan looking at me like that, it's disorienting. Two worlds colliding. The woman I pretend to be and the one I truly am. The professional relationship we're supposed to maintain and whatever this is building between us. I've spent years keeping these parts of myself carefully separated. Compartmentalized. Safe.
But tonight, the walls are thinning. I can feel something shifting, like tectonic plates beneath the surface of my carefully constructed life. A tremor that promises either destruction or creation. Maybe both.
I wonder which of us will be brave enough, or foolish enough, to take the next step. And which version of me will be there when he does.
15
ETHAN
The words hang between us, charged with something beyond our usual sparring. I watch the flush creep across Jade's cheeks as her gaze drops from mine, and I fight the unprofessional urge to trace its path with my fingertips.
The gallery hums around us, but my focus has narrowed to the woman beside me, standing before the photograph of a mother and child amid hurricane destruction. Something about this exhibition matters to her beyond professional networking. I've been in security long enough to recognize when someone's holding back information.
"You seem to know a lot about these photographs," I say carefully, watching her reaction. "Do you know the artist?"
She stiffens slightly, almost imperceptibly. "No," she says too quickly, then adds, "Nobody does. That's the point of an anonymous exhibition."
"Then why was it so crucial for you to be here tonight? Important enough to risk your safety."
Jade steps closer to the photograph, her reflection ghosting over the glass. "Look at these women, Ethan." Her voice drops, intimate despite the crowd surrounding us. "Each one has survived something that should have broken them, yet here they are, captured in moments of strength."
I study the image of the mother nursing her child amid devastation, seeing it through new eyes. "The exhibition theme resonates with you."
"Women who've faced hardships and come out stronger?" A sad smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "Yes, it resonates."
There's more she isn't saying, something personal tethering her to these images. I've spent weeks in her home, guarding her body and her privacy, yet at this moment, I realize how little I truly know about Jade Sinclair beyond security briefings and public personas.
"That's Joanne," she murmurs, almost to herself, gesturing to the hurricane survivor.
I frown. "How do you know her name?"
Jade freezes momentarily, then recovers with practiced ease. "The gallery owner mentioned it earlier. Richard's quite knowledgeable about thecollection."
The explanation is plausible, but my instincts tell me otherwise. In my line of work, noticing inconsistencies keeps people alive.
As she moves to the next photograph, an elderly woman with gnarled hands weaving an intricate basket, I take the opportunity to really look at Jade. Not as my client or the celebrity model the world sees, but as the woman before me, eyes shining with genuine emotion as she absorbs these powerful images.
I've been so focused on potential external threats that I've missed what's been right in front of me: Jade Sinclair lives an isolated existence. No friends dropping by. No family calling. No lovers visiting. Just her staff and now us. Three men paid to protect her.
The realization sits heavy in my chest. Is that why she fought so hard to come tonight? Not just for the art or networking, but for connection to something meaningful?
