Jack & Jill POV
Jack didn't just sit in the café; he occupied it. Every inch of his posture was calculated — one arm stretched across the back of the booth, legs casually crossed, white trousers sharp enough to crease steel. Beside him, Jill was practically fused to his side, angled in so the light hit her hair just right. From across the room, they looked like an ad for unattainable perfection.
He didn't let on, but his mind wasn't on the cappuccino cooling in front of him.
It was on her.
The mental loop started with that first buzz on his phone a week ago — a notification from one of his cameras. A motorized pan, a crisp digital zoom, and suddenly there she was.
Not alone.
Three men had walked through her door like they owned it. Unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar swagger. The camera's AI labeled them unidentified males. His jaw had tightened.
Violation. Disrespect. A breach of ownership.
The old Jack — the one before Jill, before the spotlight — might have stormed over there. Instead, this Jack, the refined one, deleted the alert thread after a long, cold stare. He didn't need to see the rest. Didn't need the details.
But there was one image he kept.
The lingerie shot.
Silk the color of pale blue ice, so sheer it blurred the line between covered and bare. Straps sliding against her skin. Something she had never worn for him — not once.
His first reaction had been fury. When she'd been his, she'd gone with safe, plain, or nothing at all. If she'd worn this for him, maybe he would have fed more often. Maybe he would have kept her longer.
But instead she wore it now — when it didn't matter, or worse, when it mattered for someone else.
That fury had burned hot… then shifted. He'd unbuckled his belt one-handed, phone still lit with her image. He didn't want context. Didn't want to see what happened after. He wanted her in that frozen second, adjusting the strap, lips slightly parted. He'd whispered into the quiet, low and hoarse — mine — as he finished.
And then he'd gone about his day.
The men in the footage were irrelevant. Noise. A nuisance.
Now they stood at the edge of the café, black-suited and watchful — the best shifters money could buy. He'd skimmed their files weeks ago; one or two seemed vaguely familiar, but all shifters looked the same to him. Useful muscle, nothing more.
The idea of replacing them hadn't even tempted him.
Firing them would mean admitting she might have allies.
It would mean giving her a tiny win, and narcissists didn't hand those out.
It was better to keep them close, to make them follow his orders. To make her watch them obey.
Leash them. Leash her.
Beside him, Jill's perfume drifted sweet and sharp as she leaned closer, speaking in that perfect low tone. She didn't know about the cameras. She didn't care about shifters or security files. Her victory was simpler — social triumph. Seraphine, ex-best friend, forced to plan the wedding that would publicly seal Jill's win.
Jill's thoughts ran like champagne: she was the one in the silk dress now, the one on Jack's arm, the one whose engagement photos would grace every glossy feed. And Seraphine? She would be standing behind the flowers, clipboard in hand, smiling for photos that weren't hers.
Jack felt her shift slightly against him, all smiles for the world but with a razor hidden in the curve of her mouth. The perfect couple. The perfect day. And in less than a minute, the perfect arrival of the third piece on their chessboard.
---
Sera POV
The next few days blurred into the kind of monotony that made me almost miss their chaos, when I woke up that day they already left.
A cookie tin with a note saying 'Thank you for dinner, we're your new neighbors'
I even caught myself missing the men. Apparently a night of banter was enough to scramble my entire social wiring. Who knew?
I'd spent those days building myself up for the meeting with Jack and Jill—mentally replaying every past interaction like a horror movie marathon.
Jack talking over me in meetings.
Jill "accidentally" forgetting to credit me for a design.
Jack making tail jokes in front of people he knew I'd never be able to clap back at without looking "emotional."
The list went on.
Now, standing in front of my closet, I tried to force myself toward something daring. I failed.
In the end, I chose clean, professional lines—a skirt and blouse combo sharp enough to cut paper.
In the mirror, I adjusted the collar, letting the fabric fall just so. The outfit wasn't fashion. It was armor.
I reached behind me and, with practiced precision, tucked my tail into the hidden compartment I'd sewn into the waistband. Smooth. Flat. Invisible. No bumps. No hints. Ghosts don't have tails.
Beige heels. Done.
I kept my makeup light for once—still dark-lashed and defined, but softer, less of my usual sultry armour. Hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, not a strand out of place.
I stared at my reflection and told myself, "You've survived worse. You're just meeting your ex and your ex–best friend to plan their wedding. Totally normal Thursday."
I braced for that old gut-punch of pain or humiliation.
Nothing.
Just the sterile mental quiet of prepping for a job. Strangely comforting.
In the garage, I paused between my motorbike and my car. Looked at my skirt. Looked at my heels.
"Yeah, because nothing says intimidation like flashing traffic my underwear," I muttered, unlocking the car.
The Copper Lantern Café waited across town—an airy, upscale space with brass fixtures, hanging plants, and coffee grinders loud enough to be cover fire.
Old me would've gone to their turf, made it easier for them, bent until my spine cracked.
Not today.
Today, I had a company to protect, a perimeter to keep. Public space was my shield. The chatter, the clinking cups, the witness factor—here, they couldn't twist the air around me. Here, I was the one setting the terms.
The Copper Lantern Café smelled like espresso, fresh bread, and smugness.
I spotted them instantly—hard not to. They were sitting at one of the corner tables, the kind you only get if you either arrive indecently early or threaten the host's family.
Jack Smallcock—yes, still funny every time—looked like he'd been sculpted for an overpriced fragrance ad. Chiseled jawline, perfect cheekbones, hair swept back in that calculated "I just rolled out of bed looking like this" way. White dress shirt, top two buttons undone, white trousers, dark belt. Relaxed posture. One hand holding a glass with a citrus wedge like he was auditioning for a yacht commercial.
Jill Warren sat beside him, the human embodiment of a luxury handbag ad. Long, glossy blonde hair with highlights that looked like they were installed by angels. Sharp cheekbones. Icy blue eyes that screamed I have a trust fund and you don't. Dark fitted blazer over a white turtleneck—classic, sophisticated, and probably more expensive than my car.
Together, they looked like Ken and Barbie's "We vacation in Monaco" edition.
If Ken had the personality of a damp towel and Barbie had the emotional warmth of a tax audit.
They were leaning in close, whispering, smiling too much, his hand on her knee, her perfectly manicured fingers tracing the inside of his wrist—like they were filming the world's most boring softcore romance scene.
I knew exactly what they were doing. They wanted me to squirm, to feel that ugly twist in my gut.
Instead, I took my time crossing the café, heels clicking against the floor, because nothing says unbothered like slow, deliberate footsteps.
As I approached, Jill laughed a little too loudly at something Jack said, and he shot me a smug glance over his shoulder.
"Wow," I said, stopping just short of their table. "Ken and Barbie. I didn't know Mattel made a 'Gaslight & Manipulate' edition."
And then I smiled, slow and sweet, before taking the seat across from them.
"Interesting choice," Jill said, her gaze flicking from my black dress to my boots like she was grading a poorly executed art project.
Jack's smirk was a shade too slow. "Not what I would've put you in, but… I suppose it's better than the feral look."
"Glad to know I've met the bare minimum," I said, sliding into the seat opposite them, my smile sweet enough to rot teeth. "Wouldn't want to clash with the centerpieces."
They didn't laugh. Good.
What followed was a polite firing squad.
Jill: how she was "giving me this chance" to redeem myself as a friend.
Jack: the not-so-subtle jabs about my "ability to follow through" on a project.
Both: the implication that planning their wedding was some sort of moral debt I owed them.
A year ago, it would've gutted me. Today, I just sat back and let it wash over me like bad elevator music.
When Jill tried to pivot from criticism to condescension — "Of course, if this is too much for you, I'm sure Jack can find someone more… reliable" — I smirked.
"Oh, I'm perfectly capable," I said, flipping open my planner. "Why don't we get down to the boring logistics? You two can tell me exactly how you want the most important day of your lives to look, and I'll make sure it's flawless."
That tiny, dismissive shift into professional mode made Jill's nostrils flare. Jack's smile tightened. They'd expected me to squirm; instead, I'd just scheduled their smugness into my to-do list.
Jack broke the moment with a small wave. "Gentlemen."
I froze for half a second when I saw who stepped forward.
Zaire in front. Kaiden just behind. Theo on the left. All in black, all with that coiled, ready stillness that shifters wear like a second skin.
Jack's gaze caught my flicker of recognition. His lips curved in triumph. "Friends of yours?" he asked, voice dipped in false innocence. "I've employed them. They're shifters — perfect job for animals."
Jill laughed like it was an actual joke.
The sound made my nails dig into the leather of my planner, but I didn't give them the satisfaction of seeing it.
"You'll have to work together," Jack continued, his tone turning that quiet shade of possessive that made my skin itch. "After all, since you're my…" His eyes slid down and back up, slow enough to make me want to scrub myself raw. "…precious friend, I've instructed them to monitor you closely. Make sure you don't… follow your basic instincts." The last words were spat like they tasted foul.
For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. The Jack I knew was right there, staring at me over the rim of his smirk.
But here's the thing — I knew exactly why he hadn't fired them.
This was the leash. His power play. Forcing people to wear his uniform, take his orders, stand between me and the door if he wanted.
A win for him wasn't getting rid of my allies. It was making me watch them obey.
I smiled. Just enough for him to think I'd accepted it.
---
Jill leaned forward, clapping her hands like we were about to play a fun little game. "Now, Sera, let's talk color palettes. Something classic, but bold. Timeless, but modern. Oh— and flattering, of course. We wouldn't want you to stand out for the wrong reasons."
The urge to laugh almost broke me. Instead, I clicked my pen and said, "Don't worry, Jill. I'll make sure everything matches perfectly."
"Good," Jack said smoothly. "We wouldn't want another… embarrassment, would we?"
I kept my eyes on him, my smile sharp. "No," I said lightly, "we wouldn't."
And then, as Jack's smugness settled back in, I felt a shadow fall over me.
Zaire had moved. Not close enough to be obvious, but close enough that the heat radiating off him prickled across my skin. He was no longer by the door; he stood as a silent, unmoving wall between me and Jack, his presence deliberate. Kaiden and Theo had shifted too, positioning themselves on either side of the entrance, their gazes sweeping the café with slow precision — as if searching for a threat that wasn't there.
The faintest trace of Zaire's scent reached me then — warm cedar and something wild beneath it, grounding and unshakable. It curled around my frayed nerves, quieting the edge in my chest, reminding me I wasn't alone in this room no matter how much Jack thought I was.
The game had officially begun.
And my security detail clearly wasn't playing by the rules.
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