I whispered to the empty room: "Too late."
But the moment the words left my mouth, I heard a noise behind the door — a slight exhale.
A pause.
Like he'd heard me.
Like he hadn't left at all.
Good. Let him hear. Let him stay on edge.
I kicked off my shoes, peeled off the jacket I'd worn too long, and stood barefoot in the middle of a room designed to suffocate. The chandelier above me sparkled like fake stars. The walls were champagne silk and ivory trim. Gilded luxury trying to make me forget it was also a prison.
But I'd grown up in this house. I knew better.
The Presidential Mansion was nothing but a polished lie.
And I was done pretending.
I walked to the mirror.
Stared at her — at me — with smeared makeup and cracked mascara tracks.
My lips were swollen from biting them. My eyes, red with rage I didn't dare release yet.
I didn't look like the President's daughter.
I looked like a headline.
And yet… when I touched the side of my neck — the same place Killian's eyes had paused just minutes ago — I didn't feel shame.
I felt power.
Because for a moment, the man trained to feel nothing had looked at me like I was fire.
And that?
That was the beginning of a war he wouldn't see coming.
Killian Cross. Code name: Grim.
I googled him once — before I lost my phone, my freedom, and most of my dignity.
Nothing came up.
No LinkedIn. No articles. No records. Not even military press.
Just a grainy photo from a diplomatic event four years ago, standing behind my father — sunglasses, bulletproof vest, expression of a man who'd never smiled in his life.
He looked like a ghost even then.
Now, he looked worse.
Like a ghost with a grudge.
And he was mine now.
Assigned, forced, shackled — whatever word they'd used to get him here.
But he was here.
Outside my door.
So I did the only thing a girl in lockdown with no phone, no privacy, and nothing to lose would do:
I opened the door.
He didn't flinch.
He stood against the wall, arms crossed, eyes forward, posture like he'd been carved from stone. No reaction. No surprise. No crack in the armor.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
He didn't move.
I leaned against the doorframe, letting my body angle just slightly — enough to make his line of sight more complicated.
"Off-duty soldier cosplay?" I asked, tilting my head. "Or are you practicing your mannequin impression?"
His voice was dry. "Watching."
"Creepy."
"Necessary."
"Depends on your definition."
"Mine involves keeping you alive."
I gave him a slow once-over, then smiled sweetly. "You think I'm in danger?"
He didn't hesitate. "Everyone's in danger. Especially you."
"And you?"
"I'm the one they send when danger needs to be put down."
A chill ran up my spine — not fear. Fascination.
I studied him now. He was wearing the same black-on-black tactical blend, but his shirt was rolled just enough to show the edge of an old tattoo near his wrist. Faded lines. Could've been a date, a code, or the beginning of something erased.
"Do you ever blink?" I asked.
"No."
I laughed. "Wow. Hilarious."
He blinked.
My eyes narrowed. "You do have a sense of humor."
"No," he said flatly. "I have orders."
"And what exactly are those? Keep me safe? Keep me silent? Or keep me sedated?"
His jaw ticked.
I stepped closer.
"Because if you think you're here to break me, Grim, you're late to the party. I was already broken. Now I'm just sharp."
We were inches apart now. His scent — cold pine and gunpowder — filled my lungs.
And his eyes finally locked on mine.
There was something buried in them. Something too dark for daylight. Something that looked a lot like guilt.
Or history.
Or both.
"Go back inside, Miss Thorne," he said quietly.
"I told you not to call me that."
He arched a brow. "And I told you not to play with fire."
"You didn't say that."
"I'm saying it now."
I leaned in, voice a whisper. "Then put me out."
For a second — just one — his gaze dropped to my lips.
And then he stepped back. "Your father will be reviewing your behavior logs in the morning. Don't give him a reason to make this worse."
I blinked.
"You tell my father everything?"
"I tell him what matters."
"And who decides that?"
"I do."
Well, wasn't that charming.
My bodyguard was judge, jury, and moral compass.
I could've slammed the door in his face. I could've screamed, threatened, clawed — but none of that worked on men like Killian Cross. I knew because I'd spent years watching similar men guard my father. Ice veins. Nerves of steel. Loyalty bred through fear, not faith.
But Killian didn't seem loyal.
He seemed tired.
Of what, I didn't know yet.
But I planned to find out.
I didn't sleep that night.
Not because I couldn't.
Because I didn't want to.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the slow movements outside my door — the shifting of boots, the turning of pages, the silence that told me he hadn't left his post once.
No one had ever watched over me like that.
No one had ever cared enough to.
But Killian didn't care.
He was just doing his job.
And I hated that it still made my stomach twist.
The next morning, I was woken by the rustle of curtains.
Marla, one of the staff maids, entered without knocking. "Miss Thorne, you're scheduled for a 9AM media rehearsal. You'll need to look presentable."
"Media rehearsal?"
She laid out a cream dress I hated immediately. "There's going to be a controlled press release. Your father will address the scandal, and you'll appear with him — silent, of course. Contrite. Apologetic."
I sat up slowly.
"No."
"Miss?"
"I'm not going."
"That's not an option."
I got out of bed, moved past her, and tore the dress from the bed. "You think I'm going to play the part of the sad little daughter who got caught being human? Who lets Daddy spin her humiliation like it's part of some PR strategy?"
She looked terrified.
Good.
I dropped the dress in the trash bin.
She left without another word.
Ten minutes later, Killian appeared in my doorway.
"You're not dressed."
"Neither are you," I said, eyes dropping to the tight fit of his tactical pants.
He didn't bite.
"Your father's waiting," he said.
"Let him wait."
Killian stepped inside. "If you don't show, it'll look like guilt."
"If I do show, it'll look like surrender."
He studied me for a long second.
And then, in a voice low and sharp, he said, "If you want to survive this, you're going to have to learn how to lose battles without losing the war."
I turned to him. "Are you saying I should bow?"
"I'm saying pick your weapons. This isn't the battlefield you think it is. This is optics. Narrative. Image."
I hated that he was right.
I hated it more that I didn't want to disappoint him.
So I grabbed the dress out of the trash.
"Turn around."
He did.
And I dressed.
In silence.
Like a girl preparing for her execution.
The press room was suffocating.
Even in the private wing, the walls felt thinner. The cameras hadn't arrived yet, but staffers and PR sharks circled like vultures. Grace Thorne stood near the podium, lips tight, pearls tighter.
She didn't look at me.
When my father entered, the room fell silent.
He walked straight up to me. "You will stand behind me. You will not speak. You will nod when I say your name. That is all."
"Father—"
He held up a hand. "You lost the right to defend yourself the moment you gave him that photo."
I felt Killian's presence behind me, solid and unmoving.
And then, right before the cameras turned on, a man in a gray suit walked up to my father and whispered in his ear.
Something changed in his face. Barely. But I saw it.
"What?" I asked.
My father's jaw tightened. He looked at me.
"There's another file," he said coldly. "Leaked anonymously to the media moments ago."
My blood turned to ice.
Another file?
Another photo?
Another—
Before I could process it, the man turned to Killian.
"Take her back. Now."
Killian moved instantly, placing a firm hand on my arm.
I yanked it away. "What's in it? What did they see?"
But no one answered me.
No one had to.
Because I knew.
The first leak was a betrayal.
This one?
This one was a declaration of war.
Phoebe discovers the new file isn't just a photo — it's a video, and she doesn't even remember filming it.
Was she drugged? Set up? Or is the leak coming from inside the Mansion?