Page 28 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
She flips through the photos slowly. One. Two. Three. Her eyes stop on one of them—me behind her, Sean in front, Wesley curled against her back—and her lips press into a line so sharp it might cut glass.
She doesn’t ask where they came from. Doesn’t ask how we got them. Just breathes like it’s costing her something.
When she finally speaks, her voice is low. “If these get out, it’s over.”
Sean’s jaw flexes. “We won’t let that happen.”
Bailey doesn’t look at him. She’s still staring at the photos. “Everything I’ve built. Gone in a click.”
“You’re not alone,” Wesley says gently.
She finally lifts her eyes—and I see the crack in her. Not fear. Not shame.Anger.And that makes me want to kill someone. Specifically, her ex-husband.
“I can take care of him,” I offer, quiet but steady. “Quick. Permanent. I can make it as painful as you want.”
She blinks at me, then lets out a short breath that might be a laugh. “Thanks, Huck. Really.”
She pats my chest, soft and distracted, and turns away, leaving us behind. Sean watches her go. Wesley sighs.
I glance between them. “That was a yes, right?”
They both groan.
“No,” Sean says.
“Definitely not,” Wesley mutters.
I frown. “Seemed like a yes.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Still sounded yes-adjacent.”
Sean just walks away, probably off to write another operations protocol. Something stupid about not killing enemies or whatever. Wesley claps my shoulder and says, “She’s not there yet, big guy.”
Yeah. But I am.
Bailey’s estate sprawls across ten acres of private land, lined with trees, bamboo, and money. The kind of place you only get after clawing your way through a brutal business and surviving with your teeth still in your mouth. From above, it’d look like a sleek glass-and-stone estate. From the ground? It’s a fortress wrapped in jasmine.
Now that I’ve had the chance to explore the grounds, I’m even angrier about the breach. The main drive splits into a half circle that loops past a three-car garage and back toward the rear gates. Beyond that, there’s the pool house, a detached gym (in addition to the gym inside), two garden courtyards, a greenhouse, and a walking path that disappears into a dense grove of citrus trees, oaks, and silence.
If you didn’t know this place was owned by someone famous, you’d think it was a retreat for a CEO who hates people. It’s perfect. Except someone got in.
I walk the perimeter on foot, slow and methodical, scanning every inch of the gravel path and brush just beyond the gates. The sun beats down hard enough to make me sweat through my shirt, but I don’t rush. The tension in my chest needs somewhere to go, and stomping out my anger one footprint at a time is better than putting it through someone’s skull.
I circle to the front gate again and crouch low. That’s where I see it. Faint tire tracks. Wider than a sedan, narrower than a truck. The fine gravel’s been nudged slightly out of alignment—cleaner, newer tread impressions. I run a hand across the edges, following the pattern with my fingers.
Deep enough for weight. Rugged enough for off-road. Not commercial. Jeep Wrangler. Not definitive. But familiar enough.
I take a quick series of photos, then stand and scan the tree line. Nothing else. No cigarettes. No footprints. No wrappers. Nothing I can latch on to. Whoever it was, they didn’t stay long.
But they got close.
I clench my jaw and head back up the drive, heat thrumming under my skin like a live wire. Bailey built this place to be untouchable. And still, he touched it.
Wesley’s in the garage when I find him, half under the SUV with a tablet in one hand and grease on his cheek like he’s doing it on purpose. He doesn’t look up when I walk in. “Did you find anything?”
“Tracks,” I grunt. “Front gate. Fresh tread.”
