Page 47 of The Bodyguard

“She thought I’d protect her. That I’d hide what she’d done. That if she said the right words, wore the right collar, I’d look the other way.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” Mitch said. “I turned her in. Myself.”

She swallowed hard. “And that cost you.”

“Cost the company a half-million in cleanup, three months of surveillance reroutes, and almost buried the ambassador’s protection detail in a political clusterfuck. I got benched for six months and spent every one of them learning how to spot the next version of her.”

Andi nodded slowly, her pulse thrumming hard in her ears. “And now you think I’m the next version?”

“No.” He stepped in close. “I think someone else does. And they want to make sure I don’t see it until it’s too late.”

“Do you think it’s a reference to the Wexler case?” she asked. “Or the car crash?”

“I don’t know yet,” Mitch said. “But it’s time we find out.”

She raised her eyes. “You mean we?”

Mitch nodded once. “No more secrets. No more moves you don’t know about. If someone’s using your past, we trace it. If they’re targeting mine, we hit first.”

Andi breathed slowly through her nose. Her fear hadn’t vanished. But something sharper had taken its place.

Conviction. She looked at Mitch and saw it there too—just beneath the surface. This wasn’t about protection anymore. It was about alliance.

It was war.

The letter sat on the counter like it was breathing.

Andi had walked away from it. Twice. Tried to forget the way the words had curled around her ribs and settled deep. Tried to believe that they were bluffing. That whoever this was—whatever they wanted—was posturing, not planning.

But the way Mitch moved now said differently.

He was in full Cerberus mode. Quiet. Strategic. Watching every corner of the loft like it might bite back. He’d swept the perimeter twice. Checked her tracker. Tightened every security setting on her phone. Even so, something lingered in his eyes.

Something unsettled. He wasn’t afraid. Mitch didn’t do scared. But he was preparing for war. And she wasn’t used to being the one left on the sidelines.

Andi stood by the window, watching the street five floors down, her arms folded tight, body wrapped in an oversized hoodie she hadn’t worn in months. She didn’t like the way it felt, like armor she didn’t remember putting on.

Behind her, Mitch was silent, seated at the end of the couch, phone in hand, head bowed slightly as he reviewed footage from the street cams. The glow of the screen lit his features, sharp and still. He hadn’t looked at her since she walked out of the kitchen, and that silence was louder than any argument they’d had.

She turned from the window and walked toward him slowly. Her bare feet made no sound on the hardwood, but when she got close enough, he still looked up—always aware, always ready.

She stopped a few feet away. “Mitch.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

She hesitated. Then crossed the space between them and dropped to her knees in front of where he sat. His posture shifted immediately. Not outwardly, but she felt it. The shift in presence. The way his eyes sharpened as he took her in, measured her. Not just her body, but her intent.

Andi placed her palms flat on his thighs.

“What do you need from me tonight?” she asked quietly.

Mitch didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“You said I trust you,” she added. “Let me show you what that means.”

He exhaled once—slow and deep—and set the phone down on the end table without looking away from her.

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