Jason knocked gently.
"Selene? Your new security is here."
Silence.
Then—
"Tell him to go away."
A woman's voice. Cold. Controlled. Like frost layered over fire.
Jason winced.
Kian didn't.
He pushed the door open himself.
The room was wide, sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, painting gold streaks on the polished floors. At the center stood a grand piano, obsidian black, its surface reflecting the slender figure seated before it.
Selene Hartmann.
Her posture was rigid, almost statuesque, one hand hovering above the keys. She didn't turn to look at him. Her long dark hair spilled over her back, and the black silk blouse she wore contrasted sharply with her pale skin.
Cold. Untouchable.
Every inch as Jason had warned he'd find her.
Kian stepped inside, boots quiet on the floor.
"Miss Hartmann," he said evenly. "I'm Kian. I'll be—"
"No. You won't."
She finally turned.
Her eyes were mercury. Silver-gray, sharp enough to cut. Beautiful in a way that didn't invite admiration—only distance. Pain. And warning.
"You may leave now," she said calmly. "I don't need a bodyguard."
Kian held her gaze. "Your mother disagrees."
"She's paranoid."
"She's worried."
"I don't care."
She rose from the piano bench, slow and precise, like someone who measured every movement. When she faced him fully, he realized how fragile she looked—fragile, but guarded by a fortress made of stone and steel.
"I don't want a stranger following me everywhere," she continued. "Breathing down my neck. Watching me."
Her jaw tensed. "I don't want anyone."
Kian didn't flinch. "You don't have to want me. You just need to stay alive."
For the first time, something flickered across her eyes—annoyance? surprise? fear?
It vanished almost instantly.
She stepped closer, chin raised. "People don't get close to me. You won't be any different."
"I'm not here to get close," Kian replied. "I'm here to do my job."
"And what makes you qualified?"
He didn't boast.
Didn't list his medals.
Didn't explain the years of discipline, betrayal, training, dismissal, survival.
He simply said, "I don't quit."
Her expression tightened—as if those three words hit something hidden deep within her.
Before she could respond, footsteps echoed down the hallway. Selene's mother entered—a striking woman in a tailored suit, her face lined with fatigue and worry.
"Selene," she said breathlessly, "We need to talk. The threats escalated. Two more messages arrived this morning."
Selene stiffened. Her expression didn't crack, but Kian felt the shift—a silent tension blooming beneath the surface.
"Not now," Selene muttered.
Her mother turned to Kian, relief softening her features. "Good. You're here. Please keep an eye on her. She won't admit it, but she needs this."
Selene's jaw clenched.
Her mother left.
The room fell silent.
Selene turned away from everyone, hands pressing against the piano as if grounding herself.
"Fine," she whispered finally.
Not to him.
Not to the room.
Just to the situation swallowing her whole.
Then louder, without looking back:
"You can start tomorrow. Don't be late."
Kian nodded once and stepped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
As he walked down the hallway, Jason hurried to catch up. "So? First impression?"
Kian's face stayed unreadable.
"She doesn't want protection," he said.
"But she needs it."
And somewhere deep inside, he sensed this job was not going to be simple.
Not even close.
Kian woke before his alarm, shadows still stitched across his bedroom walls. He dressed with a soldier's precision—black shirt, black trousers, boots polished into quiet authority. The mirror caught his reflection: tired eyes, a strong jaw, a man both rebuilt and breaking at the same time.
But today was different.
Today, he wasn't just an unemployed ex-infantry man trying to rebuild his life.
Today, he had a mission again.
By the time he stepped out of the house, Amelia was already awake, pretending not to watch him leave from the window. He lifted a hand in reassurance, and she returned it with a small smile, her faith in him stronger than his in himself.
Brookstone Tower was already alive when he arrived—sleek cars, security checkpoints, executives rushing inside. In the sea of polished wealth, Kian stood out—not poorly, but honestly. A man who came from struggle, not luxury.
Jason met him at the entrance, grinning.
"Ready for the big leagues?"
"No," Kian muttered, "but I'm here anyway."
Jason clapped his shoulder. "Good. Follow me."
The elevator ride to the 42nd floor felt like rising into another world. Glass walls, marble floors, staff who moved like ghosts with tablets in hand. Every step reminded Kian he didn't belong here.
And then he entered her floor.
Selene's wing was quiet. Too quiet.
A fortress wrapped in elegance.
Two guards stood at the double doors—professionally trained, well-armed, well-paid. Their eyes scanned Kian instinctively, assessing, measuring.
Jason handed them the clearance badge.
"He's her new primary."
The guards exchanged a look—surprise, but also relief. They'd heard of Kian's record; even with the dismissal, the military reputation clung to him like shadow.
Then the doors opened.
And there she was.
Selene Lancaster stood near the tall windows, the early sunlight washing over her like a halo of cold gold. Her black hair fell loosely around her shoulders, her posture perfect, composed, untouchable. She wore a pale grey suit that made her look powerful and distant all at once.
She didn't turn to greet him.
Not at first.
Not immediately.
She made him wait.
Only after a few seconds did she speak, voice calm but edged with steel.
"So," she said softly, "this is the man my mother hired."
Kian cleared his throat. "Kian Hale, ma'am. Your new—"
"I know who you are."
Her voice wasn't raised, but it shut him up instantly.
Finally, she turned to face him fully.
Her eyes were… unreadable. Deep. Cold.
But not empty.
No—there was something beneath the ice. Something sharp. Something wounded.
She looked him over once—head to toe—then returned her gaze to the file on her desk.
"You were in the army."
"Yes."
"Dismissed."
"…Yes."
"You were framed."
Kian blinked. He hadn't expected that.
Barely anyone had said that to him without looking suspicious or doubtful. But Selene's tone held no judgment—just observation.
"How did you know?" he asked.
Selene closed the file, fingers elegant, movements controlled.
"My mother doesn't hire amateurs. If she chose you, it means your dismissal was politics, not failure."
Kian wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or exposed.
She stepped closer—not too close, but enough for him to notice the faint scent of jasmine and cold morning air.
"I don't need a guard who follows orders blindly," she said.
"I need one who can think. Strategize. And stay alive."
Her gaze flicked to him again.
"You can manage that, I assume?"
Kian straightened. "I can."
She gave a small nod, satisfied yet distant. "Your duties begin immediately. You follow me everywhere unless I explicitly dismiss you. You answer to me only. And you keep your emotions out of your work."
Kian stiffened slightly. "Yes, ma'am."
Her lips twitched—not a smile, but something close to amusement.
"Good. Because I prefer being protected by professionals… not men who confuse proximity with attachment."
He inhaled slowly.
He wasn't expecting that.
Not this early.
Selene grabbed her tablet, slipped her phone into her bag, and walked past him.
"Let's go," she said without looking back.
Kian followed, steps firm, posture steady.
But inside?
He felt something he hadn't expected.
Not attraction. Not yet.
Just awareness.
The sharp awareness of two lives about to collide dangerously.
As they stepped into the private elevator together, the doors closing them into a quiet glass box, Kian realized something unsettling:
This job wouldn't be easy.
Not because of threats.
Not because of danger.
But because of her.
Selene Lancaster was a storm wrapped in silk.
And he—already damaged, already bruised—would have to hold the line between duty and desire.