"The women are nice," I say finally. "Gracie, the others."
He nods. Doesn't elaborate.
I glance over at him, and that's a mistake. This close, I can see the details I missed last night. The scar through his eyebrow. The flecks of grey in his stubble. The hard line of his jaw.
He's rugged. Rough-edged. The kind of handsome that doesn't try to be handsome, which somehow makes it worse.
And there's something about him. The stillness. The certainty. The way he's so completely solid, like nothing could move him unless he wanted to be moved.
I've met a lot of men. Famous men, powerful men, men who could buy and sell small countries. None of them made me feel like this — hyperaware of every inch of space between us, wondering what would happen if I closed it.
"I spoke to Nate," he says, and I jerk my gaze away, caught. "Your schedule's cleared for the next two weeks. Press is rescheduled. Your label's been told you're taking a mental health break."
"A mental health break?"
"Better than the truth."
He's right.Pop star flees stalker ex-security guardisn't a headline I want to deal with right now.
"What happens in two weeks?"
"LA show. We'll figure out how to make that work when we get there."
"And until then?"
He turns to look at me, and those dark eyes hold mine. "Until then, you stay here. You don't go anywhere alone. You don't contact anyone from your old life. And if anyone shows up who you don't recognize, you find me immediately."
"That's a lot of rules."
"That's how you stay alive."
No sugar-coating. No softening. Just the truth.
I should bristle at being told what to do. I've spent my whole career being managed, handled, directed. The last thing I need is another man telling me where I can and can't go.
But when Ghost says it, it doesn't feel like control. It feels like safety. Like certainty. Like he's already mapped out every possible threat and he's three steps ahead of all of them.
"Okay," I say.
He holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. The air between us feels thicker suddenly. Charged. His eyes drop to my mouth for just a second — so fast I almost miss it — and then he's looking away, jaw tight.
"Good," he says. And nothing else.
We go back to sitting in silence. But it's different now. The easy quiet from before has an edge to it. Something unspoken humming underneath.
I'm in trouble.
I think I knew that the moment I climbed on his bike.
The package arrives just after noon.
I'm in the main room with Diesel — the big guy with the tattoos, and surprisingly easy to talk to once you get past the intimidating exterior — when the front door opens and a prospect walks in carrying a box.
"This came for someone named India?" he says, looking around uncertainly.
The room goes still.
Ghost is there before I can blink, moving with a speed that shouldn't be possible for a man his size. He takes the box from the prospect's hands, his face completely flat. Empty.
