SIMONE
I'm going to fire him.
The thought crystallizes as I stride out of Dominion's building, the two operatives falling into step behind me. They're silent, efficient, military precision in every movement. Everything about this op screams tactical control, and I hate every second of it.
Luc Pascal thinks he can talk to me like I'm some incompetent child who needs to be managed. Like I didn't take my father's company and turn it into an industry powerhouse. Like I don't negotiate with sharks in boardrooms and come out on top every single time.
I'm the client. I'm paying the bill. We are on equal footing, and the first thing I'm going to do when we get to that guest house is make him understand that fact.
The operatives guide me toward a black SUV parked at the curb. One of them opens the back door.
"Ms. LaCroix."
I slide into the backseat, check my watch. The meeting with Luc took longer than expected, which means I'm behind schedule for the rest of my day. I pull out my phone, start typing emails to my executive team.
"Where to first?" The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror.
"My office. I have business to handle before we go anywhere else." I don't look up from my phone. "LaCroix Petroleum headquarters, Central Business District."
The SUV pulls into traffic. I spend the drive reviewing quarterly projections, responding to my CFO's questions about the offshore expansion, approving budget allocations for the new drilling platform. Normal work—what keeps a multi-billion dollar operation running smoothly.
Work that has nothing to do with stalkers or photographs or moving into protective custody.
My phone buzzes—the secure server credentials Luc texted me earlier. Setup instructions follow: enable continuous sync, grant all permissions, no exceptions. Like I'm some assistant taking dictation instead of a CEO with a company to run.
I follow the instructions with sharp, angry taps. Calendar sync, contact integration, email forwarding with real-time monitoring. A notification flashes confirming the system is active. Any incoming messages flagged for threat language will alert Luc immediately.
The system wants access to everything. I grant permissions one after another, watching my digital life feed into Luc Pascal's security apparatus. Let him see how packed my schedule is. Let him try to tell me which meetings I can and can't attend.
The Central Business District appears through the window. High-rises and business towers, the financial heart of New Orleans. My building is one of the newer ones, all glass and steel, LaCroix Petroleum in tasteful letters across the entrance.
Home territory. Where I'm in charge.
The SUV pulls into the executive parking garage. The driver turns in his seat to face me.
"We'll need to accompany you inside, Ms. LaCroix."
"That's not necessary." The words come out automatically, defensive corporate armor snapping into place. "This is my building. My security. I don't need an escort to my own office."
"Mr. Pascal's orders. We stay with you at all times."
"Mr. Pascal doesn't give me orders." I grab my bag, step out of the SUV. "Wait in the car. I'll be done soon."
They don’t wait in the car. Of course they don't. Luc Pascal doesn't strike me as the kind of man whose operatives ignore instructions. I make it exactly three steps before they’re beside me. Not touching, not restraining, just there.
"With respect, that's not how this works." His tone is firm. "We accompany you inside, maintain visual contact at all times, and ensure your safety while you handle your business. Mr. Pascal's protocols. Non-negotiable."
My face burns. "This is my company. My building. I don't need two bodyguards following me around like I'm some helpless?—"
"Ma'am." He doesn't raise his voice. "You can walk inside with us, or we can call Mr. Pascal and explain why we're still in the parking garage. Your choice."
The threat is clear enough. Luc will not be happy if his operatives report that I'm already fighting protocols.
Fine. Let them follow me around like overgrown shadows. I'll deal with Luc later.
The elevator ride to the executive floor is tense. One operative stands in front, one behind, both silent and alert. When the doors open, they step out first, scanning the hallway before letting me exit.
My assistant looks up from her desk, eyes widening at the sight of two large men in tactical gear flanking her CEO.
