Vivienne's POV
Damian made me wait in the hospital lobby for two hours while he secured the location.
My penthouse. My own home. And I couldn't go inside until he said it was safe.
This is ridiculous, I muttered to Sophie, who sat beside me clutching my overnight bag. I've lived there for four years.
Someone broke in and filmed your bedroom, Sophie reminded me quietly. That's not ridiculous. That's terrifying.
She was right. I hated that she was right.
Finally, Damian appeared in the lobby doorway. He didn't look happy. Then again, I wasn't sure he had any other expression besides cold and colder.
It's clear, he said. But we need to talk about the security failures.
Of course we did.
The ride up the elevator was silent except for my heart pounding. When the doors opened to my private floor, I hesitated. Suddenly I didn't want to go inside. Someone had been in there. Touched my things. Filmed my bedroom while planning to kill me.
Stay behind me, Damian said, stepping out first.
My penthouse looked exactly the same as I'd left it three weeks ago. Same furniture. Same art on the walls. Same view of the city through floor-to-ceiling windows.
But it felt different. Violated. Wrong.
Your building security is a joke, Damian said, walking through each room with his hand near his gun. The cameras in the stairwell have been offline for six days. The doorman leaves his post for smoke breaks. Your door lock is standard residential grade—a child could pick it.
The building costs twelve thousand dollars a month
And you get what you pay for. Which is nothing. He stopped in my living room, looking around with those sharp eyes. This furniture arrangement is a tactical nightmare. Too many blind spots. Can't see the entry from the kitchen. The bedroom door is hidden behind that bookshelf.
Before I could protest, he started moving my furniture. My heavy, expensive furniture. He shoved my sofa to a different wall like it weighed nothing.
Excuse me, that's a custom piece
That's a blind spot that could get you killed, he said, moving my chairs next. Everything in this apartment needs to be positioned so I can see all entry points from any location.
I watched him rearrange my entire living space in ten minutes. My beautiful penthouse was starting to look like a military command center.
Sophie set my bag down in the entry. I should go. Let you settle in.
Don't leave, I said quickly, grabbing her hand. I didn't want to be alone here with this cold stranger.
I'll be back first thing tomorrow. Sophie squeezed my hand. You're safe now. Damian won't let anything happen to you.
After she left, the silence was heavy. Damian disappeared into the guest room—which was down the hall from my bedroom, thankfully, while I stood in my rearranged living room feeling like a stranger in my own home.
That's unnecessary, I called out when I heard him moving things in there too. You don't need to sleep here. I'll be fine alone.
He appeared in the doorway. Someone tried to kill you three weeks ago. Someone broke into this apartment yesterday. You received death threats this morning. You really think I'm leaving you alone?
It's inappropriate
It's necessary. Get used to it.
I wanted to argue more, but I was suddenly so tired. My shoulder ached. My collarbone throbbed. And the fear that had been sitting in my chest all day felt like it was crushing my lungs.
The guest room door stays open, Damian said. I need to hear if anything happens. Your bedroom door stays unlocked. If there's a threat, I can't waste time breaking it down.
You want access to my bedroom while I sleep? My voice pitched higher.
I want you alive. He met my eyes. Pick one.
I didn't answer. I just went to my bedroom and closed—but didn't lock—the door.
That night, I took three sleeping pills. The doctor said one was enough, but I needed to not think. Not feel. Not remember.
Sleep came fast and dark.
And so did the nightmares.
Gunfire. Glass shattering. Michael slumping forward, blood everywhere. Thomas screaming my name. The third shot coming straight at my head
I woke up screaming.
My bedroom door exploded open. Damian burst through with his gun raised, sweeping the room for targets. His eyes were wild, scanning every shadow, every corner.
Clear! he shouted, checking behind my curtains, under my bed, in my closet.
I couldn't stop screaming. Couldn't breathe. My hands shook so badly I couldn't hold onto my blanket.
The bullets were real. Michael was dead. I was dying. I was
Vivienne. Damian's voice cut through the panic. He holstered his gun and sat on the edge of my bed. Not touching me, but close. You're safe. It was a dream. Just a dream.
I can't, I can't breathe My chest was too tight.
Yes, you can. Look at me. He waited until my terrified eyes found his. Breathe with me. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Come on.
He breathed slowly, deliberately, and somehow I matched him. In. Out. In. Out.
Slowly, the panic faded. My heart stopped racing. My hands stopped shaking quite so badly.
Nightmares are normal after trauma, Damian said quietly. His voice was different now—not cold, but soft. Almost gentle. They'll get better with time. Not fast, but eventually.
I wiped my face with shaking hands. You sound like you know.
His jaw tightened. For a long moment, he didn't answer. Then: I do.
From the military?
From life. He stood up, that wall coming back up around him. Try to sleep. I'll be right down the hall.
Wait. The word came out before I could stop it. I didn't want to be alone. Didn't want to close my eyes and see the bullets again. Can you, would you just
I couldn't finish. Couldn't ask him to stay.
But he surprised me. He pulled the chair from my vanity to beside my bed and sat down.
I'll stay until you fall asleep, he said. That's all.
I should have told him it wasn't necessary. Should have pretended I was fine. But I was so tired of pretending.
Thank you, I whispered.
He just nodded.
I closed my eyes, listening to him breathe in the darkness. Somehow, knowing he was there made the monsters seem smaller.
I was almost asleep when his phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
I heard him curse under his breath, the first time I'd heard any emotion in his voice.
What's wrong? I asked, my eyes still closed.
Silence.
Damian?
Your bodyguard, he said finally, his voice tight and strange. Thomas Chen. He woke up from his coma an hour ago.
My eyes flew open. That's wonderful! Can I see him?
No. Damian was staring at his phone, his face pale in the screen's glow. According to this message, the first thing he said when he woke up was a name.
My heart started pounding again. What name?
Damian looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something in his eyes that scared me more than anything else.
Fear.
Yours, he said. He said your name. And then he told the nurses that you're the one who ordered the hit.