Page 11 of Duty Unbound

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I started to say, but the pink-haired woman was already dragging Ty farther into the house.

“Misunderstanding? Yeah, showing up three hours late isdefinitely that. Dexter is going to eat you alive.” She looked me up and down, taking in my jeans and tactical boots. “Though I’ve never seen backup dancers dress like you guys before. The whole rugged thing is…different. Don’t get me wrong, it works. Dexter’s always been known as a choreography visionary.”

Ty caught my eye, barely containing his amusement. “Good, because I’ve been working on my dance moves. Wanna see?”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or fire him. “I’d rather gouge my eyes out.”

“Your loss.” He turned to our enthusiastic guide. “So, what exactly does Dexter have planned for today? I want to make sure I’m…prepared.”

As the pink-haired woman launched into an explanation of choreography changes and costume fittings, I continued assessing the interior. No visible security system. No controlled access points between areas of the house. Too many people moving freely throughout the space. At least four different exit points visible from where I stood, all unmonitored.

A young man with a camera rushed past, nearly colliding with me. “Sorry, dude!” he called without looking back.

This wasn’t just unprofessional—it was dangerous. Anyone could walk in here claiming to be part of the production crew, the dance team, or the catering staff. Hell, they could probably waltz in claiming to be a long-lost cousin. How would anyone know the difference?

“Everyone, places! Now!” A clear, authoritative voice cut through the mayhem.

The pink-haired woman flinched. “Oh shit, it’s Mel.”

I turned to see a woman making her way through the crowd, tablet in hand. She wore navy dress trousers, a cream blouse, and heels, her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun. Unlike the frenetic energy around her, she moved with purpose and calm.

Melanie Rivers. I’d memorized her file along with hersister’s, but the photo hadn’t captured the quiet intensity in her green eyes. Despite myself, I felt a pull of attraction.

Then I noticed the corporate attire, the way she directed people with practiced efficiency. My interest cooled. I’d had my fill of career-obsessed women after Samantha. My former fiancée had cured me of that particular weakness.

But as Mel approached, I caught something unexpected—the gentle way she squeezed a nervous-looking dancer’s shoulder, the quick smile she offered to someone who handed her a message. Not the cold power moves I’d expected.

Definitely not anything Samantha ever would’ve done.

“You two.” She approached us, glancing between her tablet and our faces. “You’re the dancers Dexter’s been waiting for?”

Before I could correct her, a young man rushed up with a stack of papers. “Mel, the venue in Phoenix just called. They’re saying they don’t have the rider requirements.”

“Tell them to check their email again. I sent the updated list yesterday.” Her voice was firm but not unkind. “And make sure they understand this isn’t optional.”

The young man nodded and hurried away. Mel turned back to us, a flash of exhaustion crossing her features before she composed herself.

“Follow me. And for future reference,call timeis not a suggestion.” She turned and gestured for us to follow, navigating through the crowded space with practiced ease.

I caught Ty’s eye. He raised his eyebrows in silent question. I gave a slight nod. Let her assume what she wanted. It would give us a chance to observe the operation without the usual filters clients put up when security arrived.

We followed Mel through the house, past a sunlit living area where someone was arranging flowers, through a corridor lined with framed platinum records. Every fifteen seconds or so, she glanced at her phone. I gritted my teeth. It was another personalirritant—people so fucking wrapped up in their screens they couldn’t give real life the attention it deserved.

“You would have made my day considerably easier by showing up on time,” she said over her shoulder, pausing to let a group of technicians pass with equipment. She offered them a quick “thank you” before continuing. “The schedule is tight enough without having to accommodate tardiness.”

I took mental notes of each security flaw we passed. Unlocked doors to exterior spaces. Windows without sensors. Areas where the security cameras were clearly visible—and, more importantly, easily avoided.

“Nova has a full day of rehearsals, followed by an interview at four,” Mel continued, stopping to help someone who’d dropped an armful of wardrobe items. Once the crisis was averted, she resumed our path toward what sounded like the rehearsal space, based on the increasing volume of music. “Dexter needs to finalize the choreography today. That’s why he’s especially…intense.”

The way she handled each mini-crisis we passed—promptly but with clear concern for the people involved—didn’t match my initial impression. She wasn’t cold. She was overworked.

Mel finally stopped in front of a set of double doors. Music thumped from the other side, bass heavy enough to vibrate the floor. She turned to face us, and for the first time, I caught a glimpse of vulnerability beneath the proficient façade.

She took a deep breath, shoulders dropping slightly. “Look, I apologize for being short with you. It’s been a challenging morning, but that’s not your fault.” Her voice softened, the corporate tone giving way to something more genuine. “I’ll try to put in a good word with Dexter. Just…do your best in there.”

Something about the unexpected apology caught me off guard. It wasn’t what I’d expected from the high-heels, girl-boss first impression.

“Ms. Rivers,” I said, deciding it was time to clear up the misunderstanding, “we’re not dancers.”

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