Page 80 of The Bodyguard

He wasn’t a ghost of what he’d lost. He was the man standing guard over what he refused to lose again.

“You scare me,” she whispered, echoing what she’d said not long ago. “But not for the reasons you think.”

He brushed her hair back. Waited.

“You scare me,” she said, “because you see all of me. Even the parts I try to hide. And you don’t flinch.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Andi.”

She closed her eyes. “Then neither am I.”

The air in the room shifted. Not the temperature—just the feeling.

It was the safest she’d ever felt. Not because the walls were thick or the locks were secure. But because Mitch Langdon had chosen her. And she’d chosen him.

And tonight, for one fragile moment, that was enough. Whatever was coming would have to wait at least one more night.

19

MITCH

The first thing Mitch saw when he opened his eyes was her.

Still asleep, hair spilling across the pillow. One arm curved across his stomach. The sheet tangled low on her hips. Her breathing was even, her mouth slightly parted, lips swollen from the night before. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. But somehow, with her wrapped around him, he'd stopped watching the clock.

She had that effect on him—stillness in the middle of chaos.

It was temporary. He knew it. War didn’t pause just because you wanted it to.

His phone vibrated once on the bedside table. Then again.

He slid out from under her with practiced care, tugged on a pair of sweats and padded barefoot into the adjoining suite’s secure room, soundproofed and lined with Cerberus hardware. Coop’s voice came through the encrypted comm as soon as he tapped in.

“We’ve got him,” Coop said. No lead-up. No preamble.

Mitch didn’t need it. He’d been waiting for this.

“Name?”

“Gerald Faulkner. Real estate magnate. Owns one of the largest land banks in the city. On paper, he’s clean. But off the books? He’s been feeding Wexler’s PAC for years through shell firms and dummy LLCs. The zoning exemptions? The development deals Andi blocked? They were Faulkner’s. Every single one.”

Mitch’s jaw tightened. “He’s the one who pulled the trigger?”

“Not directly. But he gave the order,” Coop confirmed. “He bankrolled the crash setup, green-lit the gala threat, and funded the blackmail targeting Lacey. Even paid off the judge who signed the original arrest warrant. Full sweep.”

The rage that burned through Mitch’s chest was sharp, controlled. He didn’t shout. He didn’t curse. He simply sat down at the table, elbows on his knees, and closed his eyes for one long breath.

“How sure are we?”

“Ten out of ten. We found a hardline connection between Faulkner’s holding firm and the burner used to coordinate the surveillance at the museum. We also found a transfer—six figures, routed through a Singapore account, to Victor Ames two weeks before the crash.”

The puzzle snapped into place.

“Where is he now?” Mitch asked.

“In the city. Private residence. Guarded. Two-man detail, minimal rotation. He thinks he’s insulated.”

“He’s not.” Mitch’s voice was ice.

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