Page 53 of The Bodyguard

Andi rose from the couch, moved toward the kitchen. She moved quietly, but he still tracked her with every step.

“You want tea?” she asked, voice neutral.

“No.”

She nodded, opened the cabinet, and filled the kettle anyway.

They stood in silence. He didn’t approach. She didn’t push. It should have felt like détente. It didn’t. What it felt like was failure.

Because no matter how far he pulled back, he couldn’t stop seeing her in his arms—naked, trembling, trusting. Couldn’t stop hearing her voice when she’d whispered, ‘what do you need from me tonight?’ like it cost her something, and she gave it freely, anyway.

Protocols did not build that kind of trust. They were built on something deeper, and he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

When she turned with the mugs, he took his without comment. She leaned her hip against the counter, sipping hers, studying him again.

“I don’t like this,” she said finally.

“I know.”

“You’re locking me out again.”

“I’m protecting you.”

“I’m not glass, Mitch.”

“No,” he said. “You’re a bomb. And someone’s trying to light the fuse.”

Her jaw set. “Then let me help.”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll lead with your heart. And that’ll get you killed.”

She didn’t like that answer. He didn’t care.

He drained the tea, set the mug down, and turned to her fully. “When I have something concrete, you’ll know,” he said. “Until then, I need you to stay exactly where I can see you. And if that feels like a leash, good. Because if I lose sight of you again, it won’t be a rescue mission. It’ll be a recovery.”

She flinched, but she didn’t argue. Not this time. She just nodded once, quietly, and walked away.

He didn’t follow. Instead, he stayed by the counter and stared at the dark street until the lights blurred and the first whisper of sunrise touched the far edge of the sky.

Because he knew what came next. It wouldn’t be clean; it would be personal. And when it broke, he was the only one who could afford to bleed.

12

ANDI

That evening, the grand hall of the museum shimmered under the glow of opulent chandeliers, casting a golden hue over the assembled elite. Evening gowns and tailored tuxedos moved gracefully across the marble floors, the air thick with the murmur of influential conversations and the clinking of champagne flutes. Tonight's fundraiser was the pinnacle of Andi's campaign events—a convergence of power players, media moguls, and key donors, all under one historic roof.

Andi stood near the entrance, her posture poised, a practiced smile gracing her lips. The deep emerald of her gown complemented her complexion, the subtle shimmer catching the light with each movement. Outwardly, she exuded confidence and charm, engaging in light banter with a local news anchor. Yet beneath the polished exterior, a storm brewed.

The recent threats against both her and Mitch gnawed at her, unsettling her more profoundly than when she and she alone was the one in danger. She knew it was his job and something he was probably used to, but it didn’t sit well with her. She had grown accustomed to being a target; it came with the territory. But Mitch? He was her shield, her constant. She was unprepared to face the possibility of his being harmed.

A familiar presence materialized beside her. Mitch. Even in a tuxedo, he radiated authority, the crisp lines of his attire doing nothing to soften the formidable aura he carried. His eyes, ever watchful, scanned the room with calculated precision, missing nothing.

"Everything okay?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble meant for her ears alone.

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