Page 20 of Noel
His answer is that half-smile that makes my stomach drop and a growl that vibrates through the air between us.
“Trust me.”
Lord help me—I already do.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
We pull up in front of The Stargazer, a venue with a starry ceiling, mirrored columns, and more crystal chandeliers than sense.
It’s the kind of place clients dream of until they’re sobbing to their wedding planner about napkin folds.
Tonight, it looks more like a command center.
Black-clad Sigma techs are unloading boxes, walking the perimeter with earpieces in, scanning the room with practiced movements.
These must be his guys, and he confirms that with a sharp dip of his chin at the one in front.
Noel’s team moves like a well-oiled machine—no wasted motion, eyes everywhere.
My chest tightens.This is bigger than I thought.Bigger than I want to admit.
We step inside, and the temperature drops.Not from the air conditioning, but from the collective prickling of awareness.
Noel is already in his element, issuing quiet orders, coordinating with the venue’s head of security like he’s been doing this a hundred times before.
He speaks the language of threats—bag checks, sightlines, choke points, ingress and egress routes—terms that make the event planner in me want to fangirl and the human in me want to throw up.
“Ego, sweep the balcony again.Jack, I want the east fire exit covered.No unsecured vendors in the loading bay—lock it down until I clear it.”
He doesn’t shout.He just commands and they move.
The men respect him.They listen.
One of them catches my eye—Ego, I think he’s called—and gives me a curt nod, then turns back to his task.
Noel notices me watching, and for a moment there’s something almost gentle in his face before it flips back to business.
“See?”he says quietly when he steps back to my side.“This isn’t fluff.You’re a target because you’re visible.Because you do big things.”
“I do not want to be anyone’s target,” I snap, heat pricking my cheeks.“I want a flawless gala and a quiet life afterward.”
He hums, sarcastic and low.
“Good luck with the quiet life working high profile events in Manhattan.”
I simply scowl because I know he’s right.
We move through the room—no detail escapes him.
He crouches to check a floor register, inspects a fire exit latch, talks in low tones with the head of venue security about where cameras should be placed.
When he speaks to me, he says it like he believes I can and will follow instructions.
“Keep your phone on you.Silent except for me.You do not go to the loading bay.If you get a strange call, don’t answer.Send it to me.If anyone tries to crowd you—signal, and I clear them.”
My pulse hammers in my throat, but I nod.He’s calm.His competence is a warm blanket in the cold bite of fear.
Still, doubt flutters—am I panicking because of the note or because Noel’s proximity makes my chest ache in a way that’s embarrassingly distracting?
