LUCAS'S POV
The hotel suite smells like flowers that cost more than my rent.
I move through the space methodically. Security sweep is routine now after eight years in the military and four years doing private protection. Entry points first. The main door has a good lock but the frame is slightly warped on the left side. Someone with basic tools could compromise it in under two minutes. The balcony door has a latch that's loose. The windows are tinted but not reinforced. Someone could break the glass, climb in, and have her before security responds.
Three vulnerabilities on the first inspection.
I make notes. I'll call the hotel manager tomorrow and demand upgrades. Most clients refuse to spend money on real security until something bad happens. Adriana Vale will probably be the same. Famous people usually are. They want the idea of protection without the actual inconvenience of it. They want someone to look good in a suit and not interfere with their parties.
It's 11 PM. I'm reviewing the venue layouts for tomorrow's concert when my security alert pings.
The door on Adriana's suite just opened.
I check the timestamp. 11:04 PM. On a night before a major tour date. I pull up the security camera feed from her floor. There she is, walking toward the elevator in a black dress that probably costs five figures and leaving very little to imagination. Her hair is down. Her makeup is fresh. She's meeting someone.
I'm out of my suite in thirty seconds.
The elevator is closing when I reach it. I stick my hand between the doors and they slide open. Adriana jumps. Literally jumps like I caught her doing something illegal.
"Going somewhere?" I ask.
"Out." She doesn't look at me. Just stares straight ahead like I'm not standing here in workout clothes and a t-shirt while she's dressed for a night that definitely isn't happening on my watch.
"The tour starts tomorrow."
"I'm aware."
"You need rest. Not clubbing."
She finally looks at me and there's that defiance in her eyes that I saw in Vivienne's office. Like she's testing me to see where my boundaries actually are. "I'm allowed to have a life, Lucas. Even with you watching me."
The elevator reaches the lobby. She tries to step past me.
I don't move. "Did you check the news in the last two hours?"
"No."
"Your club's guest list leaked online at 9 PM. Someone posted it on Reddit. Every person going to Liquid tonight is now aware that celebrities might show up. Which means your stalker knows exactly where you're going."
Her jaw tightens. For a second I think she might actually take the threat seriously. Then she crosses her arms and says, "So what? I'm supposed to hide forever because of one obsessed guy?"
"No. You're supposed to be smart about your choices." I keep my voice calm. No judgment. Just fact. "You can go. I'll drive you. I'll clear the venue first and stay on you the entire time. Or you can go back upstairs and get some sleep like someone with a major concert in fourteen hours."
"You're controlling."
"I'm practical. There's a difference."
She steps out of the elevator. I follow because there's no way this conversation is over. The lobby is mostly empty at this hour. Just a couple of guests checking in and hotel staff trying to look like they're not watching this conversation.
"You knew my schedule before you arrived," I say quietly once we're away from the front desk. "You know tomorrow is demanding. You know the stalker threat is real. And you still decided tonight was the perfect time to go clubbing."
"Because I'm tired of being controlled." She turns to face me and there's something raw in her voice. "My label controls when I eat. Vivienne controls what I wear. The fans control who I'm supposed to be. And now you're here telling me I can't even go out with friends without your permission."
"I'm not asking permission. I'm offering to make it safe."
"By following me around like I'm a criminal."
"By doing my job."
We stand there in the hotel lobby and I can feel people watching us. Two minutes ago she was trying to sneak out. Now she's having this conversation with me, which means some part of her knows the danger is real. Some part of her wants to be told it's okay to be scared.
"I'm going to the club," she says finally. "You can either drive me or you can call Vivienne and tell her I went without you."
She has me. She knows exactly how to play this because someone's been playing her for six years.
"Fine. Twenty minutes. You go back to your suite, you change into something less obvious, and we leave through the garage entrance. You stay within three feet of me the entire time. And we leave at 1 AM regardless of what you're doing."
She almost smiles. Almost. "Deal."
Back in her suite, she changes quickly. The dress she comes out in is still expensive but covers more skin. She looks like a rich woman going out instead of a celebrity. Better.
We drive to Liquid in silence. I call ahead and send security in before we arrive. They clear the VIP section, position staff, and create a perimeter. When we get there, I assess the space one more time before I let her out of the car.
"Three feet," I remind her.
She nods, but the second we walk in, she spots her friends and makes a beeline for them. I let her have five feet. Close enough to respond if something goes wrong, far enough away that she feels like she has space to breathe.
Forty-five minutes in, a drunk guy in a button-up shirt decides Adriana's arm is fair game for grabbing. He pulls her toward him and starts saying something about loving her music.
He makes a mistake.
I move before I've fully processed the action. One hand on his wrist to break the grip without breaking his arm. Other hand already firm on his shoulder. I don't use force. Don't need to. Just position myself so he understands that this ends now and he's going to cooperate.
"You're going to walk toward the exit," I tell him quietly. "You're going to forget this ever happened. And you're never going to touch her again."
It takes three seconds. Nobody notices. The music's too loud, the crowd's too dense. Most people don't even realize someone was just removed from the club.
Adriana stands there with her arm still extended where the guy was holding it, staring at me like I'm something she's never seen before.
I step back to my position. Three feet away. Silent. Watching.
But I see her touch her arm where he grabbed it. See her look around for me even though I'm right there. See her leave her friends not because she wants to but because something about what just happened scared her.
We leave at 1 AM like I said we would.
In the car on the way back to the hotel, she doesn't say anything. Just stares out the window at the Los Angeles streets. When we get to the hotel, I walk her to her suite door.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
"That's my job."
"No." She turns to face me and there's something different in her eyes. Something softer. "It's not just your job. That guy grabbed me like I was something to own and you just made sure he understood he was wrong. Nobody does that for me. They just tell me it's the price of fame."
I know I should keep professional distance. Should remind her that this is business. Should walk away before this becomes more complicated than it already is.
Instead I say, "You deserve better than the price of fame."
She looks at me for a long moment. The hallway is quiet. The hotel is sleeping around us. And for a second I think she's going to step closer.
Then her phone buzzes. Vivienne texting about tomorrow's call time.
The moment breaks.
"Goodnight, Adriana," I say.
I walk back to my suite and don't sleep.
Because the thing about protecting someone is you have to understand them. Have to watch them. Have to see past all the performance to the person underneath.
And I just saw underneath.
And now I can't unsee it.
Across the wall between our suites, Adriana probably isn't sleeping either.
And that's going to be the real problem.
Not the stalker.
Not Vivienne.
Not even the publicity nightmare if anyone finds out we spent a night together.
The problem is this woman is starting to matter to me more than keeping my professional distance.
The problem is I'm supposed to protect her and I'm not supposed to want her.
And I'm about to spend six weeks on a tour bus with her.
Six weeks where the only thing between us is the promise I made to myself that I wouldn't cross this line.
Six weeks where that promise is going to get harder to keep every single day.