Zade's Pov-

She didn’t scream.

I waited for it. That sharp intake of breath, the inevitable gasp, the instinctual reaction of prey cornered by something it can’t understand. Most people scream. Most run.

But not her.

Lilia Whitmore went still. Completely.

Like a bird sensing the shadow of a hawk overhead but too stunned to take flight. That stillness wasn’t fear. Not exactly. It was something colder, more composed. Like her mind was working faster than her body could react, processing everything while giving nothing away.

Her silence was louder than a scream would’ve been.

Her eyes locked with mine, wide and vivid, trying to make sense of who I was—what I was—and why I was standing in the middle of her penthouse unannounced. They darted from my face to my hands, to the space around us. Calculating. Looking for exits.

But it was too late for that.

I released her wrist slowly, deliberately, watching the pink imprint of my grip fade into her pale skin. She rubbed at it without thinking, still too transfixed to do anything else.

Her breath came in uneven bursts. Sharp. Shallow. Like someone trying not to drown.

The silence stretched. It pressed in on us, tight as a noose.

“Why are you here?” she asked again, softer this time—but more tense. Her voice shook at the edges. A thread pulled taut, ready to snap.

I didn’t answer.

Not yet.

I turned away from her and walked toward the massive glass wall at the edge of the room. The city blinked below us, a canvas of cold steel and artificial stars. Everything about this place felt like a prison disguised in elegance. Glossy. Sterile. Expensive.

And empty.

“This view,” I said under my breath, my back to her, “it’s almost enough to forget how many people would rather see you dead.”

She flinched.

I smiled at the sound.

I turned back around, slow, letting the tension build like the pull of a storm tide. Her eyes tracked every movement. She hadn’t moved, not really. But her entire posture screamed vigilance. Her muscles were ready to react, to run, to scream—finally—but something in her held her still.

It wasn’t courage. It was survival.

“I asked you something,” she said again, louder now. She was trying to reclaim control. To ground herself. “Why are you in my home?”

I cocked my head, studying her. The effort it took to keep her voice steady was almost admirable.

“Maybe,” I said, “I missed you.”

Confusion spread across her face like a crack through glass.

Her eyebrows pulled together. “Missed me?” she repeated slowly, like she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “I don’t know you.”

“You did,” I said, quieter now, taking a step toward her. “Once.”

She shook her head. Her lips parted. Her breath stuttered.

“No,” she said, hesitant. “I think you have the wrong person. Whatever you think you remember—it wasn’t me.”

But it was.

She didn’t believe it yet, but the truth was already surfacing in her eyes. Something subconscious stirred behind the denial. A flicker of recognition. Distant. Dreamlike. Like a memory she’d buried too deep.

“Funny,” I said, my voice calm but sharp. “Only if you remembered.”

And there it was.

The tremble in her shoulders. The tiniest hesitation in her breath. The doubt scratching at the edges of her certainty. She was starting to feel it. That fracture in the wall she’d built. The one that kept me out.

I stepped closer. Just a little. Enough for her to notice.

She backed up instinctively, her hand brushing the edge of the kitchen counter. Her fingers fumbled behind her and found something. A rolling pin.

Ridiculous.

But she held it like a weapon anyway.

“Stay where you are,” she said.

I didn’t stop.

I didn’t have to.

“You think you’re afraid now,” I said, my voice low, steady, “but fear doesn’t hit until the memories start bleeding back.”

She faltered.

And I saw it—clear as daylight. That flicker of something real in her eyes. Something familiar. A feeling she couldn’t name.

And then—

The knock came.

Two sharp raps against the door.

She jumped. Her whole body tensed like she’d just been yanked back to the surface after being underwater too long. Her gaze darted to the door, then back to me.

I didn’t move.

I already knew who it was.

“Lilia?” A woman’s voice rang through the hallway—professional, crisp, practiced. “Miss Whitmore, your security detail is here for your nightly check-in.”

Security.

Perfect.

Lilia stepped away from me, her movements clumsy with adrenaline. She rushed to the door, cracking it open just enough to see the woman waiting outside.

Uniform. Earpiece. Badge.

A trained professional.

And completely unprepared.

The guard’s eyes swept past Lilia and landed on me.

“Who is this man?” she asked immediately, her tone switching to protocol.

Lilia turned to answer. Her mouth opened, ready to say what made the most sense.

I don’t know him.

But then she stopped.

Her eyes fell to the tablet the woman held in her hands.

And everything changed.

Her expression shattered like glass.

Because there, displayed on the screen, was my face.

Name: Zade Draven

Assignment: Personal Security Detail – Miss Lilia Whitmore

She didn’t speak.

She couldn’t.

Her gaze lifted from the screen to my face, and I saw it happen.

The walls came down.

Confusion.

Shock.

And beneath it all—betrayal.

“You’re..” she whispered, her voice almost inaudible, “you’re my—?”

I met her eyes. I didn’t blink. Didn’t soften.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m your bodyguard.”

And just like that, the silence between us was no longer heavy with fear.

It was drowning in dread.

Because Lilia Whitmore realized something no one ever wants to understand:

The monster wasn’t outside her door.

He was inside.

And someone had assigned him to protect her.

For the next two days, she didn’t talk to me.

Not really.

Oh, she looked at me plenty. Glares sharp enough to peel skin. Side-eyes that screamed suspicion. But actual words? Not one. Silence had become her weapon of choice, and she wielded it like a queen who knew her throne was under siege.

And still—I stayed. I shadowed her through every hallway, every meeting, every carefully curated moment of her perfect, glittering life.

Because that was my job.

That, and maybe because I liked watching her try to pretend I didn’t get under her skin.

She wore it like armor—those clipped tones and tight smiles. But it cracked. In the smallest ways.

Like when I handed her coffee before she could even ask for it—extra cinnamon, no foam, half sweet. Her eyebrow twitched like she wanted to ask how. She didn’t.

Or when I caught her staring at me once. Not the look of a woman watching her guard. It was different. Calculating. Curious. Like she was trying to piece me together in her mind, but the picture didn’t quite match the edges.

She looked away fast.

But I saw it.

And I remembered.

Late afternoon sunlight painted gold across her living room. She strolled barefoot, hair tied in a messy bun, wearing a ridiculous oversized shirt that read: My Favorite Murder Is Probably Yours Too.

She passed me, glass of water in hand, and muttered just loud enough, “You know, this has major Rhys Larsen energy.”

I blinked. “Who?”

She gasped dramatically, spinning to face me like I’d insulted a religious text. “Ana Huang? Twisted Games? Rhys-freaking-Larsen? What kind of bodyguard are you if you don’t come with a morally gray backstory and a soft spot for the woman you’re assigned to?”

I stared. “I’m armed. That’s what kind of bodyguard I am.”

She sighed. “So disappointing.”

“You expected..what? A romantic anti-hero with dark secrets and boundary issues?”

She grinned. “I have a bucket list, Zade. Don’t crush my dreams.”

“You should burn it.”

She raised her brows. “You haven’t even seen item number four yet. Spoiler—it involves handcuffs and not in a police way.”

My jaw locked. Was she joking?

She sipped her water, feigning innocence. “Anyway, I like twisted games. The book. The trope. The.. vibe.”

“I noticed.”

“And I like asking dangerous men if they plan to fall in love with me while they’re guarding me from other dangerous men.”

“I don’t.”

“Pity,” she said sweetly. “You’re already halfway to the aesthetic.”

“Which aesthetic is that?”

“Dangerously hot and emotionally unavailable.”

I exhaled slowly. “You should sleep more. Or less.”

She shrugged, amused. “Just admit you’re a little bit flattered.”

“I’m a lot of things,” I said, stepping closer. “Flattered isn’t one of them.”

“Oh, come on. Not even a tiny part of you wants to be on someone’s dark romance Pinterest board?”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And you’re lying.”

She turned and walked away again, humming something under her breath. I watched her move, watched the sway in her step she knew I was tracking. She loved it—this push and pull. The way I didn’t react unless it mattered. The way she kept testing which buttons made me look but not break.

She was dangerous in a way no assassin ever had been.

And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stop her..

Or see just how far she’d go.

Flashback

The echo of the door closing behind my parents still rang in my ears. I sat in the hospital waiting room, head pounding, heart dragging like it was stuck in wet concrete. I glanced at my phone, hoping maybe time had slowed down.

11:03 PM.

My breath caught.

The dinner had been at eight.

I’d missed everything.

My screen was lit up with notifications—forty-seven missed calls. All from home.

My stomach twisted. My fingers shook as I hit redial.

The line connected instantly.

“Dad, I’m so sorry—I couldn’t make it to dinner, I—”

“Where are you?” His voice wasn’t loud. But it didn’t need to be. There was steel in every syllable, and it landed like a blade at my throat.

“I’m on my way,” I stammered. “I’ll be there in ten minutes—”

“I asked where you are.”

“Hospital,” I muttered. “I had to—”

“Did you crash out? Are you insane?” he snapped. “Everyone’s waiting. Get here. Now.”

The call ended.

I drove like a ghost was chasing me. My mind a blur. My gut hollow.

By the time I reached the venue, everything felt wrong. The lights were too bright. The music too polished. The faces too many.

And then I saw her.

A girl, standing beside my parents.

She didn’t look like she belonged there either.

Her gaze found mine and lingered a second too long.

I walked toward them.

“I’m sorry, Dad, I—”

He didn’t even glance at me.

“Zade,” he said, gesturing toward her. “Meet your fiancée.”

My breath caught.

I looked at her again. Trying to place her. Trying to understand the ice trickling down my spine.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile either.

My father turned and gave me that signature smirk. Tight-lipped. Dead-eyed. The kind of smile that made your skin crawl.

And in that moment, I knew.

Nothing in my life was mine anymore.

Not even me.