Vivienne's POV
I was still staring at the video of Marcus and Julian when my hospital room door opened.
Agent Marks walked in, but she wasn't alone.
The man behind her moved like a wolf, silent, controlled, dangerous. He didn't walk into the room. He swept it with his eyes first, checking every corner, every window, every possible threat. Only then did he step inside.
He was tall and built like he could break someone in half without trying. Dark hair cut military-short. A face that looked carved from stone. And eyes dark, intense eyes that missed absolutely nothing.
Those eyes landed on me for half a second, then moved on, still scanning.
Like I wasn't even important enough to look at twice.
Ms. Ashford, Agent Marks said. This is Damian Cross. He'll be your protection detail starting immediately.
The man, Damian checked behind the door, looked under my hospital bed, then walked to the window. He tested the locks with quick, efficient movements.
He still hadn't said a word to me.
Excuse me, I said, my voice sharper than I intended. I'm right here.
Finally, those dark eyes focused on me. Really looked at me. His face showed nothing—no sympathy, no kindness, no emotion at all.
Ms. Ashford. His voice was deep and cold as winter. I'll be protecting you until the threat against your life is neutralized.
I don't need a babysitter, I snapped.
Sophie, still sitting beside my wheelchair, sucked in a breath. Agent Marks's eyebrows rose.
Damian's expression didn't change at all. Good. Because I'm not a babysitter. I'm the person who keeps you alive.
He pulled a small tablet from his jacket and tapped the screen. Your previous security protocol was incompetent at best, criminally negligent at worst. Same route every day. No variation in schedule. A single bodyguard instead of a team. A non-armored vehicle. Predictable arrival and departure times.
Each word was like a slap. My face burned.
Your driver was Michael Santos, age forty-seven, former police officer with basic protection training. Your bodyguard was Thomas Chen, age thirty-five, licensed but with no tactical experience. Neither was equipped to handle a professional hit.
Thomas is in a coma three floors down! I said, my voice rising. Michael is dead! How dare you criticize them
I'm not criticizing them. I'm stating facts. Damian's voice stayed flat and emotionless. They did their best with inadequate training and resources. That's not their fault. It's whoever hired them and set up your security. They made you an easy target.
The words hit me like ice water. Easy target.
Ms. Ashford survived by pure luck, Damian continued, still looking at his tablet instead of me. She dropped her phone and leaned forward at the exact moment the third shot was fired. One second later, and she'd be dead. That's not security. That's chance.
Agent Marks cleared her throat. Mr. Cross has protected diplomats, CEOs, and federal witnesses. He's the best at what he does.
I don't care if he's protected the President, I said, glaring at this cold, arrogant man who talked about my driver's death like it was a math problem. I didn't ask for him.
No, Damian said, finally looking up from his tablet. His dark eyes locked onto mine. You didn't ask. Because you didn't think you needed better security. You thought your name and your money would protect you. How's that working out?
I wanted to throw something at him. My hands gripped the wheelchair arms so hard my knuckles turned white.
Sophie stood up. You can't talk to her like that
Yes, I can. Damian's gaze didn't leave my face. Because someone wants her dead. And if she wants to survive, she needs to hear the truth, not pretty lies.
The truth? My voice shook with anger. The truth is that my life has been destroyed in three weeks. My family is trying to steal everything I have. My fiancé left me for my best friend. Someone is sending me death threats. And now you—you walk in here treating me like I'm stupid
I don't think you're stupid, Damian interrupted. I think you've lived in a bubble your entire life. Protected. Sheltered. Never had to think about real danger because other people handled it for you. That bubble is gone now. Someone put three bullets through your car window. They killed your driver. They hospitalized your bodyguard. And according to Agent Marks, they're not done yet.
The room went silent.
He was right. Every word he said was right, and I hated him for it.
Here's how this works, Damian said, his voice still that same cold, professional tone. You follow my security protocols exactly. No arguments. No 'but I want to.' No 'that's not convenient for me.' You go where I say, when I say, how I say. You don't leave my sight. You don't make decisions about your safety without consulting me first.
Absolutely not, I said. I'm not a prisoner
You're a target. He stepped closer to my wheelchair. And if you want to stay alive, you follow my rules. If you can't do that, I walk right now, and you can hire someone else who'll tell you what you want to hear while you get killed.
We stared at each other. His dark eyes held no warmth, no sympathy, no give at all.
Agent Marks broke the silence. Ms. Ashford, I strongly recommend you accept Mr. Cross's protection. We still don't know who ordered the hit, and
My phone buzzed.
All three of them looked at it lying on my lap.
Another unknown number.
My heart started racing. Damian moved fast, faster than I expected, and grabbed the phone before I could.
Don't touch that, he said sharply to Agent Marks, who'd reached for it too.
He looked at the screen, his jaw tightening. The first emotion I'd seen on his face.
What is it? I asked.
Damian's eyes met mine, and something shifted in them. Something dark.
Someone just sent you a live video feed. His voice was tight. From inside your penthouse apartment.
My blood froze.
That's impossible, Sophie whispered. The building has top security
Watch. Damian turned the phone so we could see.
The screen showed my living room. My furniture. My things. The camera panned slowly across the space, like someone giving a tour.
Then the camera moved to my bedroom.
To my bed.
To my closet, where the door stood open, showing all my clothes.
The video ended with a simple message typed across the screen:
We're waiting for you to come home, Vivienne.