Harley
The air in the penthouse office was tinged with lemon and lavender, my two favorite scents. It calmed my nerves, steadied my focus. The high-rise windows stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a panoramic view of the city I worked so hard to conquer. It was an early morning in spring, soft light pouring in and pooling onto the glossy marble floors of my headquarters—Smith Couture.
I crossed one leg over the other, tapping my fingers against the edge of the folder on my lap. Just minutes before the next interview, my mind slipped—back to that gut-wrenching moment I found out my former bodyguard had been selling my designs. Terrence. I trusted him. He knew my schedule, my routines, my vulnerabilities. And somehow, behind that silent loyalty and sharp suit, he was feeding my ideas to a rival company like scraps. I still remember the sinking feeling in my chest when my fall collection appeared on someone else's runway—my sketches, my vision, all stolen. I'd never felt more exposed. Since then, I promised myself: never again. I won't hand over my safety, my business, or my peace of mind to someone I haven't read like a book first. That's why I insisted on conducting these interviews myself. The first three men today? Polished, well-trained, even charming—but something was off. One was too eager to get close, another spoke like he already knew me, and the last one made a joke about designer knockoffs that rubbed me the wrong way. I smiled, nodded, told them I'd call. I wouldn't. And then—just as I was about to give up on today—the door opened, and in walked Mr. Frazer.
I simply observed the man seated in front of me. Levi Frazer. Thirty-two. Background: clean. Or rather, sanitized. I'd done my own digging before this meeting—too much about him was too well put together. That never sat right with me. But when he entered the room two minutes ago, tall and stoic, with a stare sharp enough to cut glass and a build like he belonged on a battlefield rather than a boardroom floor, I understood why he was good at what he did.
He was quiet now. Observing me, too. Not ogling, not fidgeting. Watching. Calculating.
"You came highly recommended, Mr. Frazer," I said, voice calm and crisp. "Former military, worked private security for a few high-profile clients. I like that. But I don't hire resumes, I hire people. So we're going to skip the fluff and get straight into expectations."
He nodded once. "Yes, ma'am."
I raised an eyebrow. "Don't call me that. It makes me feel like someone's grandmother. I'm Harley." Something flickered in his eyes—a small shift, but I caught it. He was quick to adapt, recalibrate. "Understood, Harley."
I finally opened the leather folder, revealing a single sheet of paper. My personal checklist. I'd drafted it the night before, rewriting it twice, obsessing over every word. Being particular was my thing. I couldn't afford not to be.
"I have certain expectations," I began, tapping a manicured nail against the paper. "First and foremost, your job is to protect me. That's a given. But it goes further than the usual scope of a bodyguard. I don't want three men trailing me. No chauffeurs, no other assistant's. Just you. One person. If something goes wrong, if there's a betrayal, I need to know exactly who did it. Do you understand that?"
"Completely," he said without hesitation.
"You'll also drive me. Every meeting, every event. If I need you to drop me off and then wait two hours, you wait. If I need you to come inside and shadow me quietly, you do that too."
"I'm used to long hours. That won't be a problem."
I nodded, satisfied with his tone—firm but respectful.
"You'll also be in charge of minor tasks. Fetching things. Coffee runs, sometimes. If I forget something in the office, you'll get it. If I need you to handle something for an event, you'll make it happen."
His brow arched slightly. "Personal errands?"
"Not groceries," I said dryly. "But yes. If I'm having a long day and I need a specific brand of mint ice cream from a specific bodega downtown because that's the only place that carries it, I expect you to get it."
I watched for a reaction. He gave none.
"All right," he said.
"That brings me to the next point." I leaned forward, tone slightly more serious. "Presentation. I'm the face of Smith Couture. Fashion week, fundraisers, collaborations, global press. That means I'm always watched. Always photographed. If there's a stain on my blouse, or if my hem is crooked or my strap has slipped—you fix it."
There was a long pause. Then Levi spoke, tone thoughtful, measured. "You want me to touch your clothing?"
"Within reason. If there's something wrong with my appearance and I haven't noticed, and it's appropriate for you to fix it, do it. But there's a boundary. You do not touch me in an unprofessional manner. You do not touch me at all unless it's necessary. Does that make sense?"
He didn't flinch. Didn't fidget. "Crystal."
My gaze lingered on him for a few moments longer. Then, I leaned back in my chair, exhaling.
"Most people think because I come from money, I have no instincts. No edge. But I've had people smile in my face and stab me in the back. I trust no one. Not really. But for this to work, I have to trust you. And that's not something I give easily. So don't fuck it up."
That time, a faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. Barely there, but it softened the edge of him."I don't plan to." I looked down at my list, then back up at him. "Questions?"
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. "Just one. You said you trust no one. So why hire anyone at all?"
I smiled—but it was hollow, almost sad. "Because I'm tired of carrying everything by myself. Even wolves need a pack sometimes."
The silence stretched between us for a few seconds before I stood. Levi followed suit immediately, standing tall and composed. I walked around my desk, stopping in front of him. We were only inches apart now.
"This is your shot, Levi. Don't make me regret giving it to you."
He met my eyes. "I won't."
I walked back to my desk with measured grace, but my mind was anything but calm. I pulled open the drawer and took out the prepared contract, sliding it across the desk with a pen. "Read it through," I told him, watching his eyes scan each line. "It covers everything we discussed—confidentiality, conduct, your responsibilities. If there's anything you'd like to clarify, now's the time."
He didn't ask much. Just a few thoughtful questions, the kind that showed he was paying attention and wasn't just nodding to please me. When he finished reading, he signed it. I signed right after.
"You start tomorrow," I said, closing the folder. "Be at my building at seven sharp. I'll text you the gate code."
I scribbled my address and phone number on the back of my card and handed it to him. "This is where I live. And this," I held up my phone, "is my personal number. Use it only when necessary."
He nodded, then recited his number and address as I typed them into my contacts. "You're dismissed, Mr. Fraser," I said, standing. "I'll see you tomorrow."
He gave a slight bow of his head before walking out. His steps were steady, confident—but not arrogant. When the door shut behind him, I exhaled. Slowly.
I stayed standing for a second, then sat back down, letting my thoughts circle. Something about him lingered. The way he listened—really listened. The way he didn't flinch when I laid down the rules. The quiet in his gaze, like he wasn't just observing me, but memorizing. I replayed the entire exchange, trying to find a crack, something I missed. But I didn't find one.
My phone buzzed. I reached for it, half-expecting a reminder or a scheduling update—but it was from Steve.
"Can't make lunch. Sorry. Something came up."
That was it. No heart emoji, no "I'll make it up to you," nothing. Just… cold.
I stared at the message, feeling that old sting that had been creeping in more often lately. Steve and I had been together for three years, and for most of it, he'd been attentive, supportive—even sweet, in his own forgetful, business-first kind of way. But lately, it felt like I was the only one showing up. He'd been cancelling lunch, skipping dinners, rescheduling weekend plans. I tried not to be needy, to give him space—but how long could I ignore it?
My thoughts were cut short by a knock on my office door, followed by the soft voice of Mia, my assistant. "Ms. Smith? Sorry to disturb you. A call just came through from Coraline Designs. You've been invited to an exclusive collaboration meeting. It's with their head designer, Gabrielle DuPont."
My head snapped up. "Gabrielle?"
Mia nodded, looking just as stunned as I felt. "They want to co-design for the Lumina Gala. They want you to be in charge of the event aesthetic. It's a huge deal. They asked if you'd be available to meet tomorrow afternoon."
I blinked. Gabrielle DuPont was a legend. Her name alone opened doors. The fact that she wanted to work with me—collaborate on designing the entire visual direction—it wasn't just big. It was colossal.
"Confirm it," I said, heart picking up speed. "Tell them I'll be there and sent my schedule to Mr. Frazer."
And just like that, I had something new to focus on.