Jake didn't sleep the first night.
He sat by the window in Emilia Varella's penthouse, silent as stone, eyes flicking between the street below and the hallway leading to her bedroom.
She hadn't spoken to him since slamming the door four hours earlier.
He didn't need her to.
Jake had only one job: keep her breathing.
Everything else was noise.
At 6:13 a.m., she walked out in a navy silk wrap dress and five-inch heels that clicked across the marble like gunfire. No words. Just a glance and a glare as she passed him.
He followed.
The car was already parked at the base of the tower. Black Range Rover. Tinted windows. Reinforced panels. Jake had swept it twice before she came down.
She stepped in without waiting.
He got in beside her.
For three blocks, silence filled the space like smoke. She didn't speak a word.
And Then:
"You're not going to talk at all?" she asked, not looking up from her phone.
Jake stayed silent.
"Let me guess," she said. "Ex-military. Special forces. Probably dishonourably discharged for punching a general in the face."
"Honourably retired," Jake replied without turning.
"Hmm." She tilted her head, eyes scanning him like a dossier. "You don't seem like the obedient type."
"I don't work for people I don't respect."
She raised an eyebrow. "Do you respect me, Mr. Riker?"
"I don't know you yet."
That shut her up.
The car turned onto the boulevard leading to Varella Studios — the heart of Emilia's empire. Twenty floors of glass, steel, and media war rooms that made and destroyed careers daily.
The multi-billion-dollar empire.
Outside the studio, protestors stood with signs.
Some praised her.
Others… didn't.
Jake stepped out first, scanned the crowd, and opened her door.
She didn't say thank you. Just walked past like the world owed her space.
He followed five steps behind, calm but alert.
Inside the building, the elevator doors closed around them. Her perfume hit him like smoke — rich, spicy, feminine. He didn't flinch. Didn't look at her.
But he knew she was watching him.
Now.
"Let me guess," she said. "You have rules."
He nodded.
She smirked. "Of course you do. Hit me."
Jake looked at her for the first time since stepping into the elevator.
"Rule one," he said. "You tell me where you're going, and I follow. No surprises."
"Fair." She responds.
"Rule two. If I say move, you move. If I say duck, you duck. No arguing."
"Very macho of you."
"Rule three." He paused. "Don't lie to me. I'm not your PR guy. If someone's after you, I need the truth. All of it."
She leaned closer, her voice a whisper. "And rule four?"
Jake stared at her, eyes like granite.
"Rule four. We don't get personal."
Her lips twitched — a smile, or maybe a challenge.
"Too late," she said. "You're already in my home, my life, my car. If this isn't personal, Mr. Riker, I don't know what is."
The elevator dinged. She stepped out without waiting.
Jake didn't move for two seconds.
She didn't play fair. Jake knows he has a lot of work to do on her,
And that is a problem.
Because fair or not, something about her — the fire, the control, the cracks in her voice when she thought no one heard—was already slipping past his defences.
He followed her into the chaos of the newsroom, eyes scanning, body calm.
Jake Riker lived by rules.
But Emilia Varella had never met a rule she didn't want to break.
Later that day
Jake didn't expect the call.
He was standing in the corner of Emilia's office that evening, watching her tear apart a two-million-dollar exposé on human trafficking rings that had ties to U.S. senators. She was in full command — barking orders, flipping through documents, sipping her usual black espresso as though the world didn't have bullets with her name on them.
Then his phone buzzed.
It was Mr. Verella
Jake stepped out into the hallway and answered.
"Jake," her father said. "Dinner. Tonight. Eight o'clock. My house."
Jake frowned. "I didn't take this job to make social calls."
"I didn't ask for a debate. Show up. Alone."
The call ended.
Jake stared at the phone a second longer, then glanced back through the glass wall at Emilia.
She hadn't even noticed he had left.
It was nearly dark when Jake arrived at the Varella estate, a sprawling Spanish-style compound on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Guarded. Gated. Silent.
Just like him.
Mr. Varella stood by the fire pit on the back patio, a glass of bourbon in his hand.
"Sit," he said without looking up. "You want one?"
Jake shook his head. "No drinking on duty."
"Still military in your bones," the man said, smirking. "Good."
Jake didn't sit.
The old man turned to him fully now, eyes sharp, not warm. This wasn't a fatherly chat. It was an interrogation.
"I've seen men like you before," he said. "Quiet. Controlled. Killers with good posture."
"I'm not a killer."
"Not anymore."
Jake's jaw tightened. "If you don't mind, sir, why am I here?"
Mr. Varella took a long sip of bourbon before answering.
"You are here because my daughter's a storm. And storms don't ask permission before they drown you."
Jake said nothing.
"She's used to being alone," he continued. "She doesn't let anyone in. Not friends. Not lovers. Not even me."
"I'm not here to be let in, sir. I'm here to do a job."
"No," he said. "But I've watched how she looks at you. You're the first man she hasn't ignored in years."
Jake finally sat down.
"I have rules," he said. "Lines I don't cross."
Mr. Varella stared at him for a long moment.
"Good. Then let me make something clear. If you let your rules get broken and it turns a different part, and let it blink the wrong way, if you touch her heart and leave her bleeding, I will ruin you."
Jake didn't blink.
"I've been ruined before," he said. "It didn't stick." "And sir, it won't come to that, even if it does, her safety is my number one priority.
Mr. Varella gave a low laugh, not amused, but surprised.
"She'll break you, Jake. Or maybe you'll break each other. Either way, I hope you're ready."
Jake stood.
"I'm not here to fall for your daughter," he said calmly. "I'm here to keep her breathing."
The old man nodded. "Then make sure she stays breathing. Because someone's watching her. Closer than you think."
Jake's eyes narrowed. "What do you know?"
Mr. Varella handed him a folded photo.
Jake opened it.
It was a zoomed-in shot of Emilia at a café two days ago. The angle was high. Precise. Not paparazzi.
Jake's gut went cold.
"Who took this?"
"That's what you're here to find out," the old man said. "And Jake looked up".
"If you fall for her… don't lie to yourself about it."
Back at the penthouse, Emilia stood on the balcony, wine in her hand, staring down at the city lights with unreadable eyes.
She didn't hear the door open.
But she felt when Jake stepped inside.
His presence hit her skin like a storm front.
She turned slowly. "Where were you?"
Jake paused.
"Dinner."
"Social life? That's a surprise."
Jake didn't answer.
And for the first time, Emilia noticed something different in his eyes.
Not coldness.
Warning.
She sipped her wine and turned back toward the skyline.
"Did you know I don't dream anymore?" she said softly. "Not since I started publishing stories that ruined men in suits."
Jake said nothing. But his chest tightened.
She didn't speak again.
And neither did he.
But something was shifting between them now, something quiet, sharp, and unstoppable.