Page 36 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
I print the proof and start building the report. PDF format. Clear. Sharp. Judge-ready. Sean’s gonna want to drop this at the courthouse the minute the ink dries.
But Bailey comes first. Always.
Her office is tucked in the corner of the second floor—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a vintage writing desk she never actually uses for writing, and big glass windows that overlook the hills. It’s all soft neutrals and gold accents and the scent of her perfume soaked into the upholstery. Quiet, feminine, guarded. Very her.
She’s at the window when I knock. “Got a minute?”
She turns slowly. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Always.”
I shut the door behind me and hand her the folder. “This is for you. And then a judge.”
“What’s this?”
“Proof. That David paid someone to take the pictures.”
She flips it open and scans the printouts—payment logs, account trails, a copy of the surveillance contract with a fake signature that took me less than ten minutes to trace back to the guy’s real name and an indictable mistake. Her jaw tenses.
“This is more than enough for a restraining order, Bailey. Hell, we could push it toward a harassment case if you want. We’re ready to file today.”
She closes the folder. “No.”
My hands curl at my sides. “Bailey?—”
“No more drama. No more legal motions. No more courtrooms. No more drawn-out ‘he said, she said’ that puts Eli on the stand or Maeve in a crosshairs. I’ve had enough. They’ve had enough. I won’t do this to my kids again.”
She must be joking.
“This is the cleanest shot we’ve had to put pressure on him.”
“And what happens when that pressure makes him push back harder? When he leaks worse photos, or says I’m just a bitter ex trying to tank his reputation?”
“You’re not?—”
“IknowI’m not,” she snaps. “But do you think that matters to anyone outside of this house? Do you think the public cares what’s real when they’ve got clickbait and a headline?”
Shit. I forgot. This is Hollywood, not reality.
She softens almost immediately. Runs a hand through her hair, exhales. “I’m tired, Wes. I’m so goddamn tired of being scared of him, of fighting, of pretending I’m not two steps away from falling apart. I?—”
I move closer. Slowly. “You’re not falling apart. You’re a fighter, baby. You always have been.”
Her voice drops. “No. I’m just holding it all in.”
And then her hand is on my chest. Warm. Shaking. I forget every word I meant to say. Her fingers press just slightly into my chest, like she’s testing the depth of something dangerous. “I need to stop thinking,” she whispers. “I need out of my head.”
I know that feeling too well. The spin. The noise. The thousand things you can’t fix circling you like sharks. The connection between us is heady. I can barely breathe when her thumb draws circles over my heart.
“Say it,” I murmur.
“I want…” She swallows. “I want you to make the rest of the world go quiet. Just for a little while.”
This is against the rules. The rules we broke before. The rules we will break again, given half the chance. It’s wrong. I know it is. And I can’t bother to care.
I close my eyes. That ache in my chest? It flares. Because this isn’t just her asking for sex. This is a woman begging for sanctuary in the only language she trusts right now—surrender. She trusts me to guide her through it.
I’ve never earned that trust. All the same, I take her hand and step back, taking her around to the front of the desk. She watches me, wide-eyed, breath shallow.
“You want to hand it over?” I ask. “The stress. The control.”
