Page 6 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
A photographer catches my eye across the garden and raises his camera. I nod, turn toward the lights, and smile. The flash pops. And I shine. Even with my heart still raw, my pulse still trembling. Even knowing that the real battle hasn’t even started yet.
I shine because I have to. Because if David’s going to come for me again, he will learn I’m not the same girl he used to bury.
This time, I’ll drag him into the grave with me.
2
SEAN
Mornings at Orionstart with black coffee, black uniforms, and black humor.
We don’t do bright lights or cheerful greetings. We don’t do icebreakers or inspirational wall art. We do operational reports, encrypted client logs, workstations with colored lights, and live drills in the back lot. There’s a reason we don’t take walk-ins.
So, when Chief shows up outside my office at 0800 sharp, her face unreadable and her braids tucked tight under her hood, I know it’s not just the usual. “Roark,” she says, voice low. “You got a client.”
“Already?” I check the clock.
“They made the appointment last night. Used the burner line. Said it had to be you, Wesley, and Huck—all three.”
The hairs stand up on the back of my neck. “All three founders?”
“They asked me not to say their name in the halls. No paper trail. No audio. No cameras.”
“A paranoid client, or someone looking to settle a score?”
Chief raises one brow. “Someone with a reason to be scared.”
That shuts me up.
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking. The wall behind me is all matte black with a white vinyl constellation of Orion spanning across it. It’s clean. Intentional. Like everything else I built in here.
“Celebrity?” I ask.
She shrugs, but there’s a flicker in her eyes. “Could be.”
LA’s full of them. Actors, musicians, influencers, billionaires with more money than judgment. We’ve protected all kinds—some good, some unbearable. I’ve got a soft spot for the quiet ones. The ones who don’t act like they’re hiring muscle to stroke their ego.
Someone asking for that kind of anonymity is pompous as fuck. I don’t like it. But Chief says they’re legit, and her instincts are probably better than mine. Not that I’d ever tell her that. She already knows.
“Fine. Send them in.”
“They’re in the conference room,” Chief says. “Didn’t want to be seen going through reception.”
“Of course not.”
She hesitates. “You should probably hurry. They’re nervous.”
That gets my attention. “Why?”
Chief doesn’t answer. Just turns on her heel and walks away.
Wesley’s waiting by the glass door when I reach the main corridor. He’s already in uniform—black button-down rolled to the elbows, sleeves tight around his forearms, midnight-black topknot in place like he’s starring in an action movie no one has the budget to shoot.
Huck lumbers in from the far end of the hallway, silent and broad as the side of a barn. His red faux-hawk is spiked high today, bright against the severe black of his tactical shirt. He nods at me once. That’s all the greeting I get.
Together, we step into the conference room. And I forget how to breathe.
She’s standing at the window, back to us. Snug blue dress. Gold heels. Her hands are clasped in front of her, and the curve of her waist hits me like a goddamn sucker punch.
