"Someone delivered a photograph here recently." His tone doesn't waver. "We clear the penthouse."
I want to argue, want to tell him I don't need two military operatives treating my home like a hostile zone. But that email is still burning in my mind.
Tonight you sleep alone. Tomorrow you won't.
"Fine." I grab my purse. "But make it quick."
The elevator ride up is tense. One operative stays in the lobby, watching the entrance. The other rides up with me, silent and alert. When the doors open on the penthouse level, he steps out first, then gestures for me to follow.
We stop at my door. He pulls out some kind of device, scans the lock, the frame, checking for what I don't even know.
The door opens. He ushers me inside, locks the door behind us. "Stay right here by the entrance." Then he moves deeper into the penthouse, methodically clearing each room.
I stand just inside my own door, waiting for permission to move through my own home. The humiliation burns.
Luc Pascal is going to hear about this. Every second of it. The presumptuous commands, the invasive security protocols, the complete disregard for my autonomy. I don't care how good he is at his job. This is unacceptable.
He reappears. "Clear. You can pack now, Ms. LaCroix. We leave soon."
"I need at least an hour."
"We leave soon." He doesn't budge. "He was very specific about arrival time."
Luc's preferences override my entire schedule.
I push past the operative into my penthouse. The space is exactly as I left it this morning. Windows overlooking the city, antiques I've collected from estate sales in the Quarter and auction houses in Paris, art carefully curated over years of travel and careful acquisition.
It should feel safe. Except it doesn't feel that way anymore.
I head for my bedroom, pull suitcases from the closet. The operative stations himself by the front door, giving me privacy but maintaining line of sight to the elevator.
I can pack quickly. I've done it before for business trips, for last-minute board meetings in New York or London.
Except this isn't a business trip. This is running from someone who's been watching me. Someone who knows how to make me vulnerable.
I grab clothes without thinking. Suits for work, casual wear, workout gear. My hands move on autopilot while my mind races through the implications.
A week, maybe a month—living in a guest house on his family's property while he vets every decision about my safety. Living under his authority, following his commands.
My body heats at the thought, and I hate myself for it—hate that my traitorous nervous system responded to his dominance in that conference room, hate that even now, packing to move into protective custody, some part of me remembers the way he stepped into my space, the way his voice dropped.
I am only submissive at the club.
Except my body didn't get that memo.
I zip the suitcases with more force than necessary. Fine. I'll play along with his security protocols for now. But the moment we get to that mansion, we're establishing new terms. Equal footing. Mutual respect. Professional boundaries.
I am the client. He works for me.
My laptop bag goes over my shoulder.
"Ready, ma'am?"
"Let's go."
The ride to the Garden District takes longer than it should. Traffic is still heavy, and we're moving against the flow heading out of downtown. I watch the neighborhoods change as we drive. Business district to residential, newer construction to historic homes, until we're surrounded by the old wealth that built this city.
The Pascal mansion appears through the trees as we turn onto the property. It's beautiful in that old New Orleans way. Antebellum architecture, wide galleries, magnolia trees heavy with blooms. The kind of house that's been in families for generations, weathering hurricanes and history with equal grace.
