He pretends nothing happened. But his eyes scream that something did.
The last thing I remember is the way his breath caught when I touched his jaw.
That slight twitch — the one he always hides behind stoicism and code names and that goddamn bulletproof silence. I remember the way my fingers didn't tremble even once.
But now?
Now it's morning.
And everything smells like lies.
Not just because I'm still in the silk slip from last night — the one I wore when I walked into his room like I wasn't entirely sober, and he wasn't entirely safe. But because he's in my kitchen, frying eggs like we didn't almost cross a line so sharp it could gut us both.
I stand behind the archway, barefoot on the cold marble, watching him like a stranger might.
"You're up early," I say. My voice doesn't shake, which surprises me. It should. Every cell in me feels peeled open and rewired.
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't even glance over his shoulder.
"Didn't sleep."
There's something about the way he says it. Flat. Unapologetic. Neutral to the point of cruelty.
I narrow my eyes. "Was it the thunder? Or was it the part where I almost kissed you in your room?"
His hand doesn't pause. Not when he flips the eggs. Not when the oil hisses like a warning.
But his spine stiffens. Just for a breath. Then he rolls his neck like he's working out a kink, and says:
"You were drunk."
My breath hitches — not because of the words, but because of how calmly he delivers them.
Not like a man pretending he didn't feel something.
But like a man pretending he felt nothing at all.
I fold my arms. "I had two glasses of champagne and half a lemon tart. I wasn't drunk."
Gideon finally turns. Slowly. With the sort of deliberate slowness that makes your skin itch with anticipation. His eyes are the same impossible gray-blue I remember from last night — but now they're colder. Walled off.
"You were close enough," he says. "And you're the client."
The word hits harder than it should.
Client. Not Phoebe. Not Heiress. Not the woman whose fingers brushed his collar, whose breath mingled with his in the dark.
Just a job.
"Right," I whisper, swallowing hard. "I forgot. You only care about boundaries when they make you feel clean."
He doesn't answer. Just plates the eggs like we're roommates who don't talk about the fact that one of us woke up wanting the other.
I should walk away.
Instead, I sit across from him at the kitchen island and pick up a fork I don't need.
"I remember what you said," I murmur.
He looks up.
"You said if I cross the line, there's no uncrossing it."
His jaw flexes, once. "And you did."
The silence between us grows teeth.
I stare at him. Harder this time. "So what now?"
He shrugs. "Now we forget it happened."
A short laugh escapes me — bitter and too loud. "And that's it?"
He doesn't answer. He just looks at me. And that's the problem.
Because his eyes don't match his mouth.
His eyes aren't neutral. They're not safe.
They're wildfire behind concrete.
They're desperate, and I hate that I see it — that I see him like this. I know what Gideon wants. I know because I feel the same kind of sick want twisting in my own stomach, tight and sharp and unspeakably alive.
But neither of us is allowed to say it.
Not when he works for my father.
Not when my last name is Thorne.
Not when he's a man who disappears enemies for a living — and I'm starting to wonder if I'm becoming one of them.
I push the plate away.
"I'm not good at pretending."
He leans back in his chair, expression unreadable. "Then you're going to have a hard time surviving this family."
I tilt my head. "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"
That does it. His mask fractures — not in a way anyone else would notice, but I'm not anyone else. I know what it looks like when he's bleeding under the surface.
He stands. Quietly. Picks up my plate. Scrapes it into the trash. Like I didn't just accuse him of playing a long, bloody game I'm not yet invited to understand.
But I'm done pretending. If I'm going to be collateral in my father's world, I'm going to go down seeing every truth I'm not supposed to.
"You said you don't sleep," I say. "Why?"
He pauses mid-step. Then turns, slowly.
There's a beat of silence. Then he steps closer.
"Because I've done things," he says finally. "Things that make sleep an unearned privilege."
It's the most honest thing he's ever said to me. And it guts me. Because I want to reach for him. I want to touch the part of him that thinks he's broken beyond repair and say, same.
But I don't.
Because he's already stepped back.
And just like that, the wall is up again.
But then his phone buzzes. And something shifts. His body stiffens, head tilting.
"What is it?" I ask.
He doesn't answer. Just reads the screen. Eyes narrowing. Jaw tightening.
"Gideon."
He looks at me. Finally. "We have to go. Now."
I don't ask questions. Not when he looks like that.
Instead, I follow him out to the car in silence, heart racing.
The car's already running. That's the first bad sign.
The second is the black SUV that starts following us three blocks later.
"Is that—?"
"Yes," he says. "Stay down."
I duck as he speeds through an intersection, tires screeching. My heart pounds so loud I can't think.
"Who is it?"
But he doesn't answer.
Instead, he taps the screen on the dash, routing our signal to a fake loop. "I'm going to ask you something, Phoebe, and I need you to answer honestly."
My throat dries. "Okay."
"Did you tell anyone where you were last night?"
"No. Just you. And Livia. Why?"
He exhales through his nose. "Because someone sold your location."
My blood runs cold.
"They were waiting?"
He nods once. "At your father's penthouse. Cameras were cut twenty minutes before we left."
"How do you know that?"
He glances at me, voice low. "Because I used to be the one cutting them."
That's when I realize: I don't know this man at all.
He's not just a bodyguard.
He's a weapon.
And I think he was forged for war long before I ever touched him.
The SUV speeds up. Gets closer. My heart hammers as Gideon takes a sharp turn down an alley, shifts into reverse, and kills the headlights.
We sit in silence as the SUV blows past us.
My breath is shaky.
His is steady.
"Who the hell are you?" I whisper.
Gideon glances at me. Then reaches behind his seat. Pulls out a sleek black case. Unlocks it.
Inside: a gun.
Not standard-issue. Custom.
My mouth goes dry.
"I'm the man your father hired to keep you alive," he says, cocking the gun. "Even if it means killing every person who wants you dead."
He says it like a vow.
But all I can think about is last night — his mouth inches from mine.
Because he didn't just mean kill.
He meant me too.
He meant if I become the threat.
And somehow, I think he's already decided.
Suddenly, the silence between us isn't just thick with tension.
It's lethal.
And I don't know which scares me more — the men chasing us…
…or the man I'm running with.