Liam
I should've walked away the day I met her.
Should've taken one look at those eyes—too curious for her own good—and remembered why I was here. What I was sent to do. Who I was before her.
But I didn't walk away. I stayed. And now?
Now she's inside my head.
Loud. Constant. Dangerous.
Harley Smith.
Even her name sounds like sin.
I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles go white. She's sitting beside me in the passenger seat, humming softly to some song on the radio, completely unaware of the hell she's pulling me into just by existing. She crosses her legs, and the hem of her dress rides up an inch higher.
I don't look. I can't look.
But I do.
I let my eyes flicker to the side mirror. Just once. Just long enough to see the edge of a smirk tug at her lips as she scrolls through her phone.
God help me.
She thinks I don't notice her. Thinks I'm cold. Distant. Emotionless.
She's not wrong.
I've built my entire life on silence. On control. I don't let people in. I don't want them close. But Harley? She's crawling under my skin, pressing against the parts of me I swore I'd locked away for good.
I feel her looking at me now. I don't turn my head.
"Are you always this quiet?" she asks casually.
I don't answer.
Because if I speak, I'll say something I shouldn't. And if I look at her, I might not be able to look away.
She sighs and turns back to her phone.
I shift gears and pull into the lot in front of the venue. Her designers are meeting the models today—some pre-event fittings, scheduling, chaos. I kill the engine and step out of the car first. Move to her door before she can reach the handle. It's automatic now. Every move calculated. Every step ahead.
She looks up at me with those honey-brown eyes, pretending not to care that I opened the door for her.
She cares.
"Thanks," she murmurs, grabbing her tote and stepping out.
I nod once. No words. Just the illusion of indifference.
We walk into the building together, but I trail a few paces behind. Always watching. Always aware. Her heels click confidently across the polished concrete. She walks like she owns every room she enters. Like the world should stop and notice her.
And I do.
God, I do.
She glows when she's working. Passion burns through her veins, lighting her up from the inside. She throws herself into the madness—talking to models, adjusting seams, sketching on her iPad, barking orders in the kind of tone that shouldn't turn me on. But it does.
I stand in the shadows, hands clasped behind my back, pretending I'm not affected.
But I am.
And it's starting to show.
The longer I stay in this building, the more I feel like I'm suffocating.
Too many people. Too much movement. Too much her.
I step outside and lean against the brick wall near the loading dock. Pull my phone from my pocket. One new message. Winston.
> Update. She's not the only target. Linda Gray is connected. Find out how. Quietly.
And Liam... stay focused. Don't get personal.
Too late.
My jaw tightens as I slip the phone back into my pocket. The name Linda Gray burns like acid in my mind. I know who she is. I know what her father's tied to. But Harley doesn't. She's walking blind into a family that's buried in secrets, and she doesn't even realise she's sitting in the middle of a war.
And I'm her shield.
God help me if she ever finds out what I've done to get here.
The sharp sound of her laugh slices through my thoughts. I freeze.
Not the polite one she gives clients. Not the quiet chuckle she throws at interns. No—this one's different. Lighter. Real.
I turn my head and see her by the entrance. She's talking to a man I don't recognise—broad shoulders, smug grin, too-close stance. He says something, and she laughs again, swatting his arm playfully.
My vision tunnels.
I don't move. I don't breathe.
She doesn't belong to me. I remind myself of that—again and again—but the thought tastes like blood in my mouth.
He leans closer. She doesn't step back.
I do.
Back inside the shadow.
I stare long enough to memorise his face. Catalogue every detail. Every threat. I tell myself it's professional. That I'm analysing risk.
But my fists are clenched in my pockets. My pulse is louder than her laugh now. My thoughts? Filthy. Violent. Unforgivable.
Because I want to break his jaw for making her laugh like that.
I want to drag her away and make her remember who's been protecting her every second of every day.
I'm losing grip. And I know it.
I force myself to turn away before I act on anything. Walk around the building. Cool the rage. Count my steps. Focus on the mission. I remind myself who I am.
But the truth is, I don't know anymore.
The day I met her, I was a shadow.
Now, I'm a man unraveling—thread by thread—every time Harley Smith smiles at someone who isn't me.
Linda Gray is exactly the kind of woman I'd normally avoid—loud, privileged, painfully curious. The type who likes to take more than she gives. But tonight, I lean in.
Because behind her lipgloss smile and designer heels, her last name is the real prize.
Gray.
Her father's one of the people Harley's father used to play golf with. The kind of man who laughs over backroom deals and hides blood under polished fingernails. If I get close to Linda, I get closer to the network that's been shielding Harley's family for decades.
So I smile at her like she's fascinating.
I laugh when she touches my arm.
I pretend to like the way her perfume clings to my shirt.
We're at a private lounge uptown. One she invited me to after that "accidental" hallway meeting. The kind of place where trust fund babies sip overpriced cocktails and pretend to be important. I order her another drink and let my hand graze hers. She shivers.
Pathetic.
"You've got this... intensity," she purrs, her lashes heavy as she leans into me. "I like it. It's dangerous."
I meet her gaze. Hold it. Let her see just enough hunger to keep her hooked.
"Dangerous women like dangerous men," I say smoothly.
She giggles like I told a joke. She doesn't know I'm serious.
She doesn't know I've killed before. That my hands, right now, could crush the glass between us—or her throat.
I nod along as she rambles about her father's business trips, gala invites, some exclusive yacht party next weekend. She thinks she's the centre of this moment.
She's not.
Harley is.
Every word, every laugh, every careful flirt is for her. To stay close. To know more. To dismantle whatever web her father spun around her, thread by thread.
"I could introduce you to my father," Linda offers, licking her bottom lip. "He's always looking for sharp men. You'd get along."
Bingo.
I grin, sharp and predatory. "I'd like that."
She leans in, brushing her mouth near my jaw, and I let her. I even press a kiss to her cheek when she whispers something suggestive. But the second I pull away, my chest tightens.
Because I see Harley in my head.
And this doesn't feel like a win.
It feels like cheating on an unspoken vow.
When I leave Linda at the curb, she's flushed and smiling. Drunk on the attention.
I walk down the street alone, shove my hands in my coat pockets, and breathe through the guilt.
She's just a lead.
Harley's the mission.
Harley's the obsession.
And if using Linda is the only way to protect her…
Then so be it.