POV: Phoebe Thorne
There are three ways to wake up to a political scandal:
Hungover.
Half-naked.
On the front page of every major tabloid with the word ENGAGED screaming in bold.
Lucky me. I hit all three.
The first thing I saw when I blinked open my eyes wasn't sunlight or the carved ceiling of Safe House 9 — it was a glowing red notification banner on my burner phone. Ten unread messages. Seven missed calls. One breaking news alert:
"President's Daughter Engaged to Reclusive Tycoon-Bodyguard?"
"Mystery Man Saved Her Life—Then Stole Her Heart?"
"THE KISS THAT SHOOK AURELIA: Who Is Mr. Grim?"
My stomach twisted as I sat up in bed — alone, of course. Grim wasn't the type to linger after bleeding all over hospital sheets or saving me from bullets. No, he was the type to disappear like a ghost with a vendetta, like shadows had rules he was born to obey.
But apparently, even he couldn't erase the kiss from the surveillance cameras. Or maybe someone had planted it there.
My mouth still tingled from it. The almost. The risk.
And now the whole world knew.
By the time I stumbled downstairs, the cabin was crackling with quiet fury.
Grim stood by the stone hearth, dressed in black again, arms folded, eyes like a loaded gun. He didn't look at me — but I could feel his anger, sharp and elegant like the edge of a diamond. He hadn't shaved. Hadn't slept. Hadn't left, either.
He was still here. That meant something.
"I assume you've seen the news?" I said, keeping my voice neutral.
He finally turned. "You lied to the doctors."
I shrugged. "They asked if I was your wife. I said I was your fiancée. That's barely a lie in Aurelia's standards."
"You broadcasted it." His voice was low and deadly. "You played into it. Now they think I—"
"What?" I cut him off. "Think you're not just my bodyguard but my lover? That I might be something more than a dressed-up doll for my father's PR machine?"
"You think this is a joke?"
"No," I snapped, stepping closer. "I think for the first time in years, someone looked at me like I wasn't property. That someone risked everything to keep me alive. You didn't do that for the paycheck, Grim. So forgive me if I gave the world a name for it."
His jaw flexed. A muscle ticked in his cheek.
We stood in silence. Firelight flickered behind him, casting his face in bronze and shadow.
"You've put yourself on the radar of people who don't play games," he said finally. "This stunt—this kiss, this story—it makes you a target."
"I've always been a target," I said, quieter now. "This just gave me a little control over the narrative."
He stepped closer. Not touching. Not quite breathing, either. "Control is an illusion. And you've just handed them leverage."
A bitter laugh escaped me. "Funny. I thought leverage was what you had every time you pinned me to a wall and whispered how dangerous I was."
That made him flinch.
He turned away. Fast. Too fast.
Which meant I was right.
By noon, my father had called. Twice.
I didn't answer the first time. The second, I put him on speaker and watched Grim's expression as the President of the United States raged in my ear.
"Pheobe Evangeline Thorne, what the HELL do you think you're doing?" he bellowed. "There are ambassadors calling me for clarity! Defense briefings postponed because of your lips! Do you think the American people won't notice you're playing house with your own bodyguard?"
"I didn't do anything the media didn't twist," I said calmly. "You of all people should know that."
"Deny it. Immediately. I want a statement—tonight."
"I'm not denying it."
There was a pause. A slow, dangerous silence.
"What did you say?"
"I said," I repeated, "I'm not denying it."
"You're playing with nuclear fire, Phoebe."
"No, Dad. You are. With all your secrets and weapons and political puppets. I'm just trying to breathe."
Grim reached forward to end the call. I didn't stop him.
After the call, things cracked in the quiet.
Grim started packing. Tactical gear. Field equipment. Another burner phone.
"What are you doing?" I asked, tension crawling under my skin.
"Relocating."
"No." I stood in his way. "We just got here."
"We were never meant to stay."
"Because of a kiss? Because of a headline?"
"Because of you," he said darkly. "You keep pushing boundaries you don't understand. Every move you make makes you less safe, and me—more compromised."
I stared at him.
"What if I want you compromised?" I whispered. "What if I want to stop pretending that what happened didn't happen?"
He blinked, once. Then twice.
"I'm not who you think I am," he said finally. "And if you keep pretending this is a fairytale, someone's going to die."
I swallowed hard. "So let them come."
He grabbed me. Just once — hands on my shoulders, grip hard but trembling. "You don't mean that."
"I do." My voice cracked. "I've been kissed by death before. But you—you make it taste like something I'd die for."
He didn't answer.
Not with words.
He didn't kiss me.
But his hands lingered too long. His breath caught on mine. And when he walked away, it was with a look that said: I will burn the world if you keep looking at me like that.
And maybe I wanted him to.
That night, I snuck out again. Not far — just to the edge of the ridge above the villa, where the trees whispered and the air smelled like freedom. Grim had cameras. Alarms. Protocols.
But he wasn't watching me.
He was watching them.
Because they were already coming.
I saw it first in the sky — a drone.
Then in the distance — flashlights. Footsteps. The silence of professionals.
I didn't scream. I didn't run.
I turned.
And Grim was there.
Gun drawn.
Eyes full of every promise he'd never say aloud.
"They're early," he said.
"Who?"
"The people who want to silence the headline."
A bullet hit the tree beside us.
He shoved me down. Covered me with his body.
We rolled.
Downhill. Through dirt and pine and blood.
His, not mine.
Again.
This time, I screamed.
Not because of pain.
But because I knew the kiss they captured on camera wasn't the scandal.
It was the warning.
And this?
This was just the beginning.
TO BE CONTINUED.