I signed up for optics. For PR. For survival.
But I guess I knew I was also signing up to be the thing standing between her and whatever might come through the door.
Lila’s breath hitches. I hear it. Feel it.
I turn toward her without thinking. She’s staring at the wall like it’s the only thing holding her upright.
“This isn’t your fault,” I say, low.
She shakes her head slightly. “Feels like it.”
I don’t argue. I know that feeling too well.
Manny finishes the briefing with a few more details. Routes. Protocols. What to do if something feels off. The words blur together, but the message is clear.
When Manny finally leaves, the penthouse goes quiet in a way that feels unnatural. Too still. Like the air itself is waiting.
I didn’t marry a pop star.
I married a situation.
And it's my job to hold the line for her.
***
I move down the hallway instead, quiet and deliberate, checking the things Manny pointed out. Window sensors. Lock indicators. Panels that glow soft green when everything is secure.
Everything says safe.
My gut says otherwise.
I’m halfway toward the master suite when I hear a sound.
Not words.
Not a scream.
It’s broken. Small. Like something cracking under pressure.
I stop so fast my foot actually skids on the floor.
For a second, I tell myself I imagined it. That I’m wired tight after the briefing and seeing threats in shadows.
Then it comes again.
A soft, hitching breath.
I know that sound.
I edge closer, every instinct screaming that I’m crossing a line I’m not supposed to cross.
Her door is ajar. Just a few inches.
I shouldn’t look.
I do anyway.
Lila is sitting on the edge of her bed, shoulders shaking. Her hands are pressed over her face like she’s trying to hold herself together physically, afraid she might spill apart if she lets go.
