"Then explain it." I lean against the counter. "Security concern. Working remotely. Taking meetings via video conference. No one needs details at this point. You don't owe anyone an explanation beyond what serves your safety."
"Board members will want to know what kind of security concern."
"Corporate espionage. Industrial sabotage. Personal threat assessment." I shrug. "Pick whatever story plays best. But the dinner meeting with your board chair is cancelled. You're staying on this property until I clear you for external movement."
She stares at me like I've just told her the sun rises in the west. Like the concept of someone else making decisions about her schedule is fundamentally incomprehensible.
"I need my laptop." The words come out clipped. "And access to the secure server. And my assistant needs to be able to reach me without going through your operatives first."
"Laptop's fine. Secure server access can be configured through the security system we installed yesterday—I'll have one of my techs handle the setup this morning. Your assistant can reach you directly. All communications are monitored in real-time for threat assessment."
"Everything I do is monitored?"
"Everything." I finish my coffee, set the cup in the sink. "Emails, calls, texts, calendar updates, document access. Real-time feed to my system. Non-negotiable."
Her face flushes. "That's a massive invasion of privacy."
"That's comprehensive threat assessment." I move closer. Her shoulders draw back as she tries to maintain that professional distance. "Someone's been watching you for weeks. Knows your patterns, habits, vulnerabilities. I need to know more than they do. No privacy until the threat's neutralized."
"This is insane." But the protest lacks conviction this time. She knows I'm right, even if she hates admitting it.
"This is reality." I step back, giving her space to process. "You have half an hour to handle your morning routine and prep for your video conferences. Then we're establishing ground rules."
"What kind of ground rules?"
"The kind that keep you alive." I head toward my room. "Half an hour, Simone. Don't make me come looking for you."
I leave her standing in the kitchen, frustration and fear warring across her face. She'll push back—it's in her nature to test boundaries and negotiate terms. But eventually she'll understand that this isn't negotiable. My authority keeps her breathing. Her submission keeps her safe.
And somewhere in the process of teaching her the difference between performing surrender and actually surrendering control, maybe she'll learn to trust me enough to let me do my job.
Half an hour later, I find her in the upstairs workspace. She's dressed now—dark slacks, silk blouse, hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Full armor in place, ready for video conferences with executives who have no idea their CEO is operating under protective custody.
"Ground rules." I stop in the doorway. "You don't leave this guest house without my explicit permission. You don't open windows or doors without checking with me first. You don't communicate with anyone outside your immediate business team without running it through me. And you follow every command I give you without hesitation or argument."
"Those aren't ground rules." She closes her laptop. "Those are prison terms."
"Those are the protocols that keep stalking victims alive when threats escalate to physical action." I cross my arms. "If you stay, you follow my protocols."
"I didn't specifically choose you." She stands, moves around the desk with that controlled grace that's all practiced boardroom presence. "Margot recommended Rapier when I went to her scared. I understand your brother was a top operative at Cerberus before he left to start this—" She waves a hand dismissively.
"Remy left Cerberus because New Orleans is home." I keep my voice level. "The Pascals have been here for generations. This is our city. Our territory. Nobody knows it better, and nobody has deeper connections when it matters. You're being stalked in New Orleans by someone who knows this city. You want the best protection here? That's us."
Her mouth tightens. She's not used to being corrected.
"I understand operational authority. What I don't understand is why you're treating me like I'm incompetent."
"You're an asset under threat with zero training. Yesterday you resisted protocols. Questioned security. Prioritized schedule over safety. That gets people killed."
She flinches, the words landing harder than I intended. But she needs to understand the stakes.
"I know." But her voice has lost some of its edge. "I just don't want to live in fear."
"Then trust me to handle the fear for you." I straighten. "You focus on running your company. I focus on keeping you alive. That's the arrangement."
She looks at me for a long moment. Her professional mask slips just enough to show the woman underneath—scared, trying not to show it.
"Fine." The word comes out quiet. "What do you need from me?"
