Someone knew exactly where to stand.
"There's more." Margot pulls up her laptop, turns the screen toward me. Email thread. More photos. Each one more explicit than the last, each one violation layered on violation. "She's received one a day for the past week. Always delivered to different locations. Her office, her apartment building, her gym. No security footage, no witnesses, nothing."
"The threats?"
"Started yesterday." She clicks to a new message. Text only, no images.
I know what you need. I know what you crave. I know how to make you scream. And I know exactly how to make you disappear.
Cold slides down my spine. This isn't some amateur with a vendetta. This is someone who understands the psychology, the power dynamics, the specific vulnerabilities that come withsubmission. Someone who's been watching long enough to know how to weaponize what she gives freely in controlled space.
"She needs protection," Margot says. "Twenty-four seven. Someone who understands the community, understands operational security, and can handle her when she decides to be difficult."
"Difficult."
"She's a brat. Pushes boundaries, tests limits, makes everything harder than it needs to be." Margot's smile is sharp. "You'll hate her."
Probably. Oil heiress playing at submission in a club where real power gets exchanged. I've seen the type. Daddy's money, expensive tastes, thinks the lifestyle is performance art instead of the psychological warfare it actually is.
"Why me?"
"Because whoever's doing this knows Dominion. Knows the security system you designed. Knows exactly where the cameras don't reach." Her gaze hardens. "And because you're the only operator I trust not to fuck my client and compromise the investigation."
The accusation underneath is clear. Don't do relationships. Don't get emotionally compromised. Don't let your dick make tactical decisions. That's been my reputation since a mission went sideways, since I learned the hard way that attachments get people killed.
"Parameters?"
"She moves into the guest house tonight. You're with her every moment until we identify and neutralize the threat." Margot stands, moves to the window overlooking the Warehouse District. "She won't make it easy. She's got opinions about how protection details should run, zero respect for authority, and a talent for finding trouble. But she's also terrified, even if she won't admit it."
"And if she pushes?"
"Then you push back harder." Margot's reflection in the window shows satisfaction. "She responds to dominance. Real dominance, not the performance version. Someone's been watching her submit. Show her what it means to surrender to someone who actually knows what they're doing."
The job should be straightforward. Close protection, threat assessment, identify the stalker before he escalates from photographs to action. Keep the client alive and uncompromised.
But the way Margot's watching me suggests this won't be straightforward at all.
"When do I meet her?"
"She's waiting downstairs." Margot checks her watch. "Has been for the past twenty minutes. Probably getting impatient."
I head for the door. Stop with my hand on the handle. "You said she's a brat."
"Certified."
"Good." I pull the door open. "I don't do gentle."
Margot's laugh follows me into the hallway. "I know. That's why I picked you."
The main lounge is quieter this time of day. Afternoon light filtering through heavy curtains, a few members conducting negotiations at corner tables, the bartender polishing glasses with practiced efficiency.
And sitting at the bar, legs crossed, designer heels swinging in agitation, is the most dangerous assignment I've ever taken.
Simone LaCroix.
Honey-blonde hair swept into a ruthlessly professional twist. Suit that probably costs more than my truck, tailored to show curves while maintaining corporate armor. Manicured nails drumming against expensive leather purse. Every line of herbody radiating impatience, entitlement, and barely controlled fear.
She sees me approaching. Eyes narrow. Dark brown, sharp with intelligence and something that looks like challenge.
