Page 1 of Close Protection

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IVY

Dr. Ivy Monroe traced the rim of her whiskey glass, watching as waves crashed against the cliffs below. From her perch at the Cliffside Lounge, the Pacific Ocean stretched endless and dark, broken only by slashes of silver moonlight. The panoramic windows of the Oceana Hotel framed the view like a painting—beautiful, untouchable, safely contained.

Unlike her life, which had shattered precisely forty-seven hours ago.

She lifted the Lagavulin to her lips, letting the smoky liquid burn a path down her throat. Her third of the night, but who was counting? The bartender, probably. Theimmaculately dressed woman had raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow at Ivy's last order, though she'd said nothing. Just another judgment to ignore.

The jazz trio in the corner shifted to something slower, more melancholic. Fitting. Ivy's fingers found her phone, instinctively checking for updates before she remembered she'd disabled all notifications. Another whiskey might be in order after all.

"Death threats will do that to you," she murmured to herself, the words disappearing beneath the music.

It had started with an anomaly—a single number out of place in the Harbor Heights financials. Most would have dismissed it, a rounding error or misplaced decimal. But patterns were Ivy's language, numbers her native tongue. That single discrepancy had led her down a rabbit hole of shell companies, falsified permits, and bribes disguised as consulting fees. And at the bottom of it all: the Seraphim Syndicate.

Yesterday morning, she'd discovered her office ransacked. The monitors were smashed, but they hadn't touched her encrypted backup drives. Amateurs. Themessage left on her desk had been less subtle: a white feather and a note with six words:

Keep digging and you'll be buried.

The ice in her glass shifted, catching the blue light from the bar. Ivy considered her options for the hundredth time. She could run; she had enough money and connections to disappear. She could recant—claim she'd made a mistake in her analysis, though the mere thought made her stomach turn. Or she could do what she'd done: turn her evidence over to the Phoenix Ridge DA and request protection while they built their case.

Tomorrow she'd be in official protective custody. Tonight was her last slice of freedom, such as it was, watching the ocean from a hotel bar where a glass of whiskey cost more than most people's hourly wage.

"Some freedom," she muttered.

Her reflection in the window caught her eye—dark circles beneath eyes too alert, skin too pale against her black turtleneck. She looked like what she was: a woman running on caffeine, adrenaline, and fear.

Movement in the reflection drew her attention. A woman had taken a seat at theopposite end of the bar. Something about her posture—the straight spine, the contained energy, the way her eyes continuously scanned the room—made Ivy sit straighter. The woman wore a simple charcoal blazer over a white shirt, business casual that somehow read as armor. Her dark hair was cut in a sharp bob that accentuated her jawline. She was striking without trying, confident without performing it.

The bartender approached the newcomer with a familiarity that suggested she was a regular. The woman ordered without looking at a menu. When she raised her glass—something amber with a single sphere of ice—her movements were precise, controlled.

Ivy recognized the type: law enforcement or military. The careful observation, the back positioned against the wall, the left hand kept free. In her line of work, Ivy had encountered enough federal agents and detectives to spot them a mile away. Not that it mattered. Phoenix Ridge was a big enough city that this woman was unlikely to be connected to her case.

She turned back to the window, butfound herself tracking the woman in the reflection. There was something compelling about her stillness, the eye of a hurricane. Ivy's fingers tightened around her glass. She was looking for distraction, and this woman was definitely that—all sharp edges and quiet confidence.

The stranger caught her watching.

Instead of looking away, Ivy held her gaze in the window's reflection. A challenge. The corner of the woman's mouth twitched—almost a smile but not quite. She lifted her glass in the smallest acknowledgment before returning to her drink.

Ivy's pulse picked up. Interesting.

For the first time in days, the knot of dread in her stomach loosened, replaced by a different kind of tension. The danger waiting for her tomorrow remained, but tonight…tonight she could choose a different kind of risk. One with boundaries she could control.

She finished her whiskey in a single swallow and stood. The floor lurched slightly beneath her feet, but she steadied herself against the bar. The alcohol had dulled her edges, but her mind remained sharp. Sharpenough to make decisions she might regret in the morning.

But morning felt very far away.

She smoothed her hand over her fitted black dress—the armor she'd chosen for tonight—and made her way toward the woman at the bar. If this was to be her last night of freedom, she might as well make it count.

Behind her, waves continued to crash against the cliffs, relentless and inevitable. But for now, they would have to wait.

The distance to the bar seemed longer than it had any right to be. Ivy felt the weight of the woman's attention as she approached—measured, assessing. Up close, the stranger was even more striking. Her features were strong but refined, with dark eyes that revealed nothing and saw everything.

"That seat taken?" Ivy asked, gesturing to the empty barstool beside her.

The woman glanced at the stool as if surprised to find it vacant. "Apparently not." Her voice was low, with a slight rasp that sent an unexpected shiver down Ivy's spine.

Ivy slid onto the seat, setting her empty glass on the bar. "I'll have another," she toldthe bartender, then nodded toward the stranger's drink. "And whatever she's having."

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