Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
"You look pale," she says.
"I feel pale."
She makes tea while I sit on the sofa again. The note is already with the cops, but I describe it word for word. Etta listens without interrupting, stirring sugar into her cup like she's plotting.
"This isn't random," she says finally. "Not with the Showcase coming up."
"I know."
She sets her mug down hard enough to clink. "You can't stay alone. Not until we figure this out."
"Well..." I don’t finish my sentence, because well, I am alone. Have been since Derek and I broke up.
"Then we get security. Professional. Discreet."
I open my mouth to argue, but the protest dies when I remember the note. The way the house felt violated even after the police left.
Etta doesn't wait for permission. She's already on her phone, scrolling contacts. "I know someone in Cupid City. Heartline Security. Run by Cassian Rhodes. Ex-military, high-end clientele. Models, actors, politicians. They specialize in close protection without turning you into a circus."
"Cassian Rhodes?" The name sounds like a cologne ad.
"He's good. Very good. I used him for that actress last year—the one with the stalker ex. No incidents. No drama. He’s got a whole team of men. Capable men. He’ll have someone meet us at the airport when you land, shadow you through the Showcase, stay close until we know this creep's not escalating."
I rub my temples. "Etta, I don't want a babysitter. I can handle—"
"You can handle a lot. You can't handle someone who triggers your alarm and leaves creepy love notes on your counter." She softens her tone. "This is precautionary. You focus on the runway. Let security handle the shadows."
I stare at my cooling tea. Part of me wants to fight—I'm Indigo Lyric, I walk in six-inch heels under spotlights, I don't need protecting. But another part remembers the click of that latch. The way the air changed when someone else was in my space.
"Fine," I mutter. "But if he's some meathead who hovers, I'm firing him myself."
Etta smiles, small and victorious. "He won’t be a meathead. You'll see."
She texts Rhodes right there, arranging everything. Within minutes, her phone pings with confirmation. Someone named Mack Hawthorne will be at Cupid City International when my flight lands. Tall, dark-haired, former special forces. References impeccable. Discretion guaranteed.
I lean back against the cushions, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline's crashing, leaving me hollow. Etta stays another hour, making sure I'm locked in, alarm set, spare key in her purse. She hugs me again before she leaves.
"Try to sleep," she says at the door. "You've got your shoe fitting in the morning."
I nod as I watch her taillights disappear down the street.
Alone again, I wander to the bedroom, flip on every light. I check the windows, the closet, under the bed like a child afraid of monsters. Then I crawl under the covers, phone clutched in my hand.
The note replays in my head. I'm always watching.
I pull the duvet higher. My pulse is still too fast.
I'm not sure if I'm angry or terrified. Maybe both.
But deep down, in the part I don't like admitting exists, there's a tiny, traitorous flicker of relief. Someone will be watching back. Someone trained. Someone who knows how to stop this before it gets worse.
Someone paid to protect me. I just hope he doesn’t get in my way of my breakout moment. This showcase is a big deal, and I won’t let anyone keep me from achieving my dream.
TWO
MACK
The private jet touches down at Cupid City International just after 1400 hours on February 7th, and I'm already counting the minutes until I can get the hell out of here. Seven days. That's the contract. A week of playing babysitter to a supermodel who probably thinks danger is a bad review, then I'm wheels up, back to the real mission. My older brother, Nash visited a few days ago. He finally got a solid lead on Dad's last known location. My other brothers are in as well. Crewe's running point on logistics, Sinclair's pulling strings with old contacts, Banks is on tech, Jace and Colt are prepping gear. The Hawthorne brothers are finally moving on the ghost that's haunted us since I was fifteen. This gig? It's just a paycheck. A very annoying, glitter-dusted paycheck.
I step closer, scanning the private hangar out of habit. Black SUV waiting, tinted windows, engine idling. Heartline Security's local team already swept it twice. Good. I don't trust anyone else's eyes but mine.
Indigo Lyric emerges from the jet, all long legs and effortless grace, like the runway followed her off the plane. She's wearing oversized sunglasses, a cream trench coat cinched tight at the waist, and heels that click like gunfire on concrete. Her dark hair spills over one shoulder in perfect waves. The paparazzi are kept behind a barrier fifty yards out, but they're still shouting her name like it's sacred.