"He had rules. But she broke them without knowing"
There are three rules I've lived by for years:
Protect. Observe. Do not engage more than necessary.
They kept me alive. Kept me steady. Made sure that nothing, and no one, ever got close enough to touch the parts of me I refused to look at.
But Sophie... Sophie is pulling me off pattern.
Not through intention.
Through existence.
Even now, sitting across from her in her office, I keep reminding myself of the system I created, my armor, and it keeps slipping. Every few minutes I find my focus drifting to her instead of the reports I'm meant to analyze.
She keeps getting distracted.
Her hand tightens around her pen. Her knee bounces slightly. She flips through the same two pages over and over. At one point she just stares at a blank section of her computer screen as if the words refuse to stay still long enough for her to read them.
She thinks I don't notice. I notice everything.
The phone, the rose, the threats... they've shaken her.
And I hate that. Hate how much it bothers me.
She shouldn't have to live like prey; she shouldn't have to live with ten locks on her bedroom door.
When we leave the building, she walks slightly ahead, shoulders stiff, exhaustion weighing each step down. She's wearing heels, probably the same ones she's been running across sites with since morning.
Halfway down the entrance stairs, her ankle twists.
She stumbles. Her hand shoots out, catching mine.
It's instinct for me; my hand tightens around hers, steady, grounding.
But the shock hits a second later.
She's freezing.
Her fingers feel like ice pressed into my palm.
She pulls back too quickly, almost embarrassed. "I-I'm fine," she mutters, brushing her hair behind her ear.
Her eyes avoid mine. I let her have that dignity. "Watch your step. Heels aren't forgiving."
She huffs. "Tell me about it."
And just like that, the moment ends. But the imprint of her hand stays.
Too cold. Too fragile.
It unsettles me more than it should.
The car ride home is silent. Not tense—just quiet.
She stares out the window. Her reflection looks tired, drained, years older than she is.
I don't speak.
If I do, I might say something I shouldn't.
I sit in the living room with my laptop open, lamps dimmed so that the shadows on the walls settle like an old memory. My screen glows softly as I scroll through archives, files, and old Montez-related articles.
I search: "Montez Family rose symbolism"
Nothing. No tradition. No meaning.
Except... Victor, Sophie's step-father.
He used red roses as decoration for every anniversary, every event with his girlfriends. Always red roses. Always dressed up as something romantic and charming. Victor Montez didn't love roses, Sophie mentioned. She said that he used them like trophies or gifts of allure.
An image pops up, one of his longest girlfriends, Britney Lox. Four years with him. Four years of smiling through pictures that look staged and sharp. Roses frame nearly every photograph.
But then something else.
In the background of one picture, blurred almost beyond recognition, stands a man in a suit. A suit I've seen before.
Dark charcoal.
Fine-lined.
Custom tailoring on the sleeves.
I lean closer, pulse kicking.
And then it clicks.
That same pattern. Same stitching. I saw it once.
But the face is blurred and I can't confirm anything. My jaw tightens.
If Victor's past, Sophie's past, and the Montez Empire's past intertwine with my past...
If Sophie was right and that Clint and Victor really did hate HavenCore, the organization my father built, the one dedicated to humanitarian aid...
If they resented that success... then the accident...
My stomach twists.
Was it really just a malfunction? Or something else?
My father had enemies. Good people usually do.
But Victor Montez? Clint Reeves? My dad never mentioned even knowing the two.
It could've just been a business rivalry. Victor must be hating any business that surpassed the success of Montez Empire. But could he really do something
I don't get far in that thought, since my mind gets pulled away when I hear soft shuffling on the staircase.
I straighten immediately, switch tabs, let the light fall over something neutral... an empty document.
But when I look up; She's sleep-walking again.
Barefoot, wearing soft pajamas, hair slightly messy. Her steps are slow, hesitant. She pauses near the sofa, eyes still closed, then sits next to me.
Exactly like last time. But this time, there's something else.
A tear trails down her cheek.
My chest tightens unexpectedly. Without thinking, I reach out and wipe it gently. My thumb brushes her skin just once; soft, brief, but the contact sparks something sharp and heavy inside me.
Neither romantic nor longing.
Just... protective. Violently protective.
Like someone has placed something fragile in my hands and dared me to keep it safe.
I turn off my laptop, slide it away, and carefully lift her into my arms. She's light and she curls slightly into my chest like someone who has been exhausted for years. I have to get a lot of food into this girl, she's been having issues with her appetite and I need to fix that.
I carry her upstairs, step by slow step.
Her room is dark except for a lamp in the corner. The ten locks glare back at me even with the lights low—metal stacked over metal, a fortress made by someone who has lived afraid for too long.
I lay her on the bed gently, fixing the blanket up to her shoulders. That's when I notice the cabinet beside her nightstand.
Locked. Heavy. Reinforced.
What exactly has she had to hide from? What exactly has she lived through?
I stare for a moment at the locks, then back at her sleeping figure.
My throat tightens.
She doesn't deserve any of this.
Not the threats. Not the roses. Not the break-ins.
Not the nightmares that make her walk around half-asleep with tears on her face.
And definitely not the fear that keeps ten locks on her bedroom door.
She deserves peace.
And whether I meant to or not...
Whether my rules allow it or not... somewhere between the falling brick, the burnt rose, and the look in her eyes today...
I realize my priorities shifted.
"I'll protect you," I murmur under my breath, a promise not meant to be heard.
Because it's not just duty anymore.
It's personal.
Too personal
And I don't know what that means yet. But all I know is that whoever is haunting her... whoever is watching... whoever is sending roses, breaking into houses, and pretending to be her shadow...
They are close. And I will find them.
Before they touch her again.