The drive back started in silence.
Not the comfortable kind of silence. The kind where both people are waiting for the other person to speak first and neither one wants to give an inch.
Coy loaded her luggage into the trunk—expensive leather, definitely monogrammed, definitely screaming money—while Norah slid into the back seat like she was climbing into a town car. Like this was a service she paid for, which technically it was, except Coy wasn't getting paid by her.
He almost smiled at that. Almost.
He got behind the wheel, adjusted the rearview mirror—she was already staring out the window, jaw tight—and pulled into traffic.
Manhattan at seven PM was its own special kind of hell. Cars packed tight, taxi drivers honking at nothing, pedestrians jaywalking like they were invincible. The city moved in jerks and stops, brake lights painting everything red.
Coy navigated it automatically. Muscle memory. His mind was half on the road, half on the woman in his back seat.
Five minutes in, he glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
She was staring out the window. Not looking at anything specific—just staring. Her jaw was tight. One finger was tapping an impatient rhythm against her thigh. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Like a countdown to something.
The city lights played across her face—gold from the streetlamps, red from the brake lights, white from the headlights. It made her look softer than she probably was. Younger. More vulnerable.
He looked back at the road.
Two minutes later, he glanced again.
This time, her eyes snapped to the mirror immediately, catching his.
"Do you have a problem?"
Her voice was cold. Flat. The verbal equivalent of a door slamming in your face.
"No," Coy said.
"Then stop looking at me like you're trying to memorize my face."
Coy's lips twitched. Almost smiled. "Just doing my job."
"Your job is to drive, not stare." Her voice had gone even colder now, sharp as a blade fresh from the whetstone. "Keep your eyes on the road before I gouge them out and solve the problem for you."
He laughed.
He couldn't help it—a low, genuine chuckle that filled the car and probably pissed her off even more.
Her reflection in the mirror went rigid. Statue-still. "Something funny?"
"A little," Coy admitted.
"I wasn't joking."
"I know." He merged onto the expressway, still smiling. "That's what makes it funny."
Silence. Thick and dangerous.
Then: "Pull over."
"No."
"Excuse me?" The disbelief in her voice was almost tangible. Like no one had ever said no to her before. They probably hadn't.
"You heard me." Coy kept his tone light, conversational. Like they were discussing the weather instead of her thinly veiled death threat. "Your father told me to get you home safe. Can't do that if I'm on the side of the highway with my eyes gouged out."
More silence.
He could feel her staring at the back of his head. Could practically hear the wheels turning.
Finally: "You work for my father. That means you work for me."
"Actually," Coy said mildly, "it means I work for your father."
"Semantics."
"Hierarchy."
She leaned forward. Close enough that he caught the scent of her perfume—something expensive and sharp, citrus and something else he couldn't name. Like her.
"Let me make this very clear," she said, and her voice was different now. Lower. More controlled. The kind of voice that meant she was done playing. "I didn't ask to come back to this godforsaken city. I didn't ask for a babysitter. And I certainly didn't ask for you. So whatever my father's paying you, it's not enough to deal with me."
Coy glanced at her in the mirror again. Deliberately this time. Holding her gaze. "I've dealt with worse."
"Doubtful."
"Trust me." His voice dropped, just a shade. "You're not that special."
Her eyes flashed—anger, surprise, something else he couldn't quite name. Something that looked almost like respect.
Then she sat back hard against the seat, arms crossed over her chest. Defensive posture. Closed off.
"I hate you already."
"Yeah," Coy said quietly, eyes back on the road. "I'm getting that."
Another mile passed.
The silence this time felt different—charged, like the air before a thunderstorm. Like something was about to break.
Coy drummed his fingers once against the steering wheel. An old nervous habit from the Marines. His CO used to yell at him for it during briefings.
Against his better judgment—against every instinct screaming at him to keep his mouth shut—he spoke.
"Are you always this angry?"
"What?"
Her voice was sharp. Surprised. Like she couldn't believe he'd actually asked.
"It's a simple question." He kept his voice neutral, genuinely curious. Not judging. Just asking. "I'm trying to figure out if this is just your default setting or if I did something specific to piss you off."
"You exist," she said flatly. "That's enough."
"Fair." Coy nodded, as if that made perfect sense. "But it seems exhausting, being this hostile all the time. Doesn't it get old?"
Norah's laugh was bitter. Humorless. The sound of someone who'd forgotten what real laughter felt like.
"You don't know anything about me."
"True," Coy admitted. "But I know your type."
Wrong thing to say. He knew it the second the words left his mouth.
"My type?" Now she was leaning forward again, voice dangerous. "And what type is that, exactly?"
Coy should have stopped. Should have apologized. Should have done literally anything except what he did next, which was double down.
"Rich. Angry. Running from something." He said it matter-of-factly, without judgment. Just stating facts. "Probably whoever you were in London didn't work out, so Daddy called you home, and now you're taking it out on everyone in a ten-foot radius."
The silence that followed was arctic.
Coy could feel it. The temperature in the car dropping. The air getting thinner. The moment stretching out like a rubber band about to snap.
When she finally spoke, her voice was very quiet. Very controlled. The kind of quiet that was more dangerous than shouting.
"Pull over."
"Still no."
"I will make your life a living hell."
"You can try." Coy caught her eyes in the mirror one more time. Deliberately. "But here's the thing, Princess—I'm getting paid either way. So you can hate me, threaten me, make things as difficult as you want... but I'm still going to be there. Every day. Your father made sure of that."
"Every day?" She went very still. "What are you talking about?"
Shit.
Hanrot said she didn't know. Hanrot specifically said don't tell her until he could explain it himself.
Coy weighed his options. He could lie. Could deflect. Could say he misspoke. Or he could tell her the truth, because she'd find out in twenty minutes anyway, and at least this way she'd have time to process it before she got home.
"Your father will explain when we get there," Coy said.
"No." Her voice was steel. "You'll explain. Now." Coy sighed. Fuck it. Hanrot would be pissed either way.
"I'm not just your driver," he said. "I'm your security. Full-time."
Silence.
"Full-time," she repeated. Flat. Like she was testing the word to see if it made sense.
"Yes."
"As in..."
"As in wherever you go, I go." Coy kept his eyes on the road, but he could feel her staring at him. "Starting with university. Your father enrolled me—same schedule, same classes. Consider me your new shadow."
For a long moment—five seconds, ten, fifteen—the only sound was the hum of tires on asphalt and the distant wail of sirens. New York's lullaby. Then Norah Hanrot started laughing. Not the bitter sound from before. Something wilder. Higher. Edged with hysteria.
"Of course," she said, still laughing. "Of course he did. This is perfect. This is absolutely perfect."
Coy frowned. Glanced at her in the mirror. "Are you—"
"Oh, I'm fine." She wiped at her eyes, though Coy couldn't tell if there were actual tears or if it was just the motion of someone who'd learned to fake normalcy. "I'm wonderful. This is exactly what I needed. A babysitter. At twenty-three. Going to university with me like we're fucking buddies."
She laughed again. Then stopped. Abruptly. Like someone had flipped a switch.
"Welcome to hell, Coy," she said quietly. "Hope you enjoy your stay."
She turned back to the window.
And for the rest of the drive—twenty-three more minutes through Manhattan traffic, across the bridge, through neighborhoods that got progressively nicer—she didn't speak again.
Didn't look at him. Didn't move except to breathe.
Coy drove. Kept his eyes on the road. Told himself this was fine. This was just another job. Another principal to protect. Another paycheck.
But when he glanced at her one last time before they pulled up to Hanrot's building—one of those glass and steel towers that looked like it cost more per square foot than most people made in a year—he saw something in her reflection that made his stomach tighten.
She wasn't angry anymore. She looked defeated. And somehow, that was worse.