All I ever knew was to fight for justice, to never let the guilty go free, but her heart takes the opposite. Emilia was standing in her office with a glass of wine in her hand, facing a glass window on the last floor of her media empire, soaked in her thoughts.
Emilia Varela Ross, a brilliant and beautiful young lady a media tycoon. Also known for exposing hidden truths feared by the corrupt and admired by so many, a role model, rich and smart.
But in all that she is, she is a victim of love, Emilia understands and knows what is missing in her life she grave for love, affection but don't have the what it takes to keep it, the fear to love is more threatening than threat of death and that is the world she never thought she will step into.
"Hey girl, you've been up all night, look at you, you work a lot, common take some time off."
Emilia looks at Kia and smiles. Kia is Emilia's friend, the only person she calls a friend; every other person is either a business partner or a client.
Emilia answered Kia, "Time off to do what exactly?"
"You know, go for swimming, for a massage, just have some fun."
"Kia, I know you want me to get out there with a man, but no, thank you." I have enough going on right now
"OH, common, not again, alright, if you say so, I will be on my way now. I'll call you later, love you."
"Bye," Emilia said
Emilia soaked herself into her work, not letting anything, emotion or love, in. She is not willing to try again.
Not when her ex-boyfriend — the only man she'd ever considered a mistake — leaked private photos to the press, about her job, that almost risked her reputation
And certainly not now, as she stared at the latest death threat scrawled across her office window in black spray paint:
"YOU TOOK HIS NAME. WE'LL TAKE YOURS."
She sipped her espresso and pulled her robe tighter around her waist, calm as ever. From her twenty-seventh-floor glass penthouse, Los Angeles in all its neon fire stretched below like a kingdom she didn't ask to rule, but conquered anyway.
Emilia wasn't just a writer. She was the writer.
The queen of investigative journalism. The CEO of Varela Media. Thirty-one years old, twice on Forbes' list, and infamous for exposing secrets men in power buried under boardrooms and blood.
She had walked through more lawsuits than red carpets. And she won.
But even queens get tired of the crown. And tonight, her head hurt.
She gently turned away from the window, the city's warm glow softly illuminating her striking jawline and dark hair. Her phone buzzed lightly on the marble table next to her—that was Kia calling.
KIA
Girl, you up? That psycho message is trending again. You good??
She didn't respond. She didn't want sympathy, panic, or Kia's typical string of "you-need-to-meet-a-man" rants.
Instead, she sank into her leather couch, legs tucked beneath her like a tired lioness. Her mind ran like it always did — too fast, too loud, and always alone.
She hadn't been with anyone in nearly nine months. Not since the last one stormed out of her life with a shattered ego and a bruised pride. saying
"You don't know how to love, he'd said.
You just know how to win".
Maybe he was right. But Emilia never lost. Not in journalism, she gets whatever she wants anytime, but affection? And been touched differently, feeling like a woman in the hands of a king is something she can't get, certainly not with money or power.
Her love life was a montage of one-month distractions and dinner dates that turned into background noise. No man had ever truly touched her — not beneath the surface.
Because beneath it?
There were ruins. And no man stayed long enough to map them.
Her father's voice echoed in her head, stern and distant:
Power makes a woman dangerous, Emilia. And dangerous women make enemies.
He wasn't wrong. Especially not now.
Someone had been following her. Watching. Her security team had spotted unfamiliar vehicles outside her studio. The death threats had moved from inboxes to real-world walls.
And for the first time, she felt something unfamiliar settle in her chest.
Not fear.
No,
Vulnerability.
The word tasted like poison.
Her door buzzed.
She rose slowly, checked the surveillance monitor, and saw him: her father, standing outside in his gray cashmere coat and next to him, a man whose face was shadowed, unreadable. Standing there is Jake Riker.
She frowned.
A sinking feeling slid into her gut.
This wasn't a social call.
ALONE IN THE SPOTLIGHT:
Jake Riker didn't believe in saving people.
Not anymore.
After serving his country for years, all he wanted was to live a quiet life alone. He had done things, he had seen things, but Emilia Ross? He just can't figure it out, at least not yet.
He stood outside the glass-wrapped tower where the famous Emilia Varella lived, arms crossed, posture solid, eyes scanning the street like a predator waiting for movement.
It had taken exactly forty-five seconds for him to profile the entire perimeter: three visible exits, two concealed cameras, one blind spot on the northwest side. Four potential threats in the area — two paparazzi in a black SUV, one man posing as a jogger, and the doorman who'd looked at Jake a little too long when he walked in.
He logged it all. Filed it away. Didn't blink once.
Jake didn't do second chances. Not in war. Not in life.
Especially not in love.
The elevator doors hissed open behind him.
"Still quiet," the old man beside him said, voice gruff. "But she's getting more threats. I don't care what she says. She needs protection. Mr. Varella won't take no for an answer; he knows her daughter Emilia will want to fight it.
Jake nodded once. "Understood, Mr. Varella."
He'd never guarded someone so high-profile for so little pay. But when an old army contact called him in to help a friend — a powerful friend—Jake had agreed.
Not for the money.
Not for the media circus.
But because something in the tone of that phone call whispered: This job is different.
And Jake trusted whispers more than words.
He followed the man into the penthouse without hesitation. The doors opened to heat, light, and the scent of power — clean linen, expensive perfume, and too much glass.
Then he saw her.
She didn't move at first. Just stood across the room, robe cinched, eyes calculating.
Her presence was sharp, even when she said nothing. Her beauty wasn't loud, it was surgical. Cold, cutting, quiet in a way that made men forget how to speak. But Jake didn't flinch. He'd seen women like her before. Rich. Famous. Walled off.
But she was different, though Jake knew
She looked at him like she wanted to dismantle him, piece by piece.
"Dad," she said, not breaking eye contact with Jake. "Who is that?"
Her father sighed. "The bodyguard I told you about."
"I told you I don't need one."
"And I told you that you don't get a vote. You've pissed off half of D.C. and most of Europe with that last article. You're lucky you're not already in a body bag."
Jake said nothing. His job wasn't to argue. It was to protect, and that is what he is here to do.
She walked slowly toward them, bare feet on marble, a wine glass still in hand. "So, what's your name? Or do you just go by 'the ghost'?"
Jake finally spoke, voice low and calm. "Jake Riker."
"Jake," she repeated, tasting it. "You look like a guy who doesn't talk unless someone's dying."
He said nothing.
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you always this silent, or just around women?"
Jake held her gaze, flat and unreadable. "I don't waste words."
Emilia smiled — tight, cold, impressed despite herself.
Her father cleared his throat. "You'll treat him with respect, Emilia. He's not one of your photographers."
"Oh, I figured that out already," she said, turning away. "He's wearing more Kevlar than charm."
Jake watched her retreat into the shadows of the penthouse.
But not before he noticed something behind the sharp tongue and expensive silk robe.
She was tired. Not physically, but emotionally. The kind of tired you don't show the world unless you think no one's looking.
He'd seen that look before.
In mirrors.
In soldiers.
In people who knew what it meant to be alone in a world full of people.
His phone buzzed.
New message – Unknown:
You're not ready for her. She'll ruin you.
Jake stared at the screen for a long second, jaw tightening.
He deleted the message.
Without a word, he left.