Trust didn't arrive all at once.
It crept in through small things.
Andre stopped arguing when Alexandra changed routes without explanation. He stopped asking how she knew when to pause or when to move. He learned to read the way her shoulders tightened, the way her gaze lingered half a second too long on certain faces.
She learned his patterns, too.
He drank coffee late at night, black, untouched for long stretches. He paced when he thought no one was watching. And when he slept—rarely—he slept lightly, like a man who had learned not to expect safety.
They didn't talk about the attempt again.
Instead, they existed in the same space, orbiting each other cautiously.
Until the cracks began to show.
The invitation arrived that afternoon—hand-delivered, sealed, elegant. A charity gala. Public. Loud. Predictable.
Alexandra tore it open and shook her head immediately. "No."
Andre looked up from his desk. "It's already been announced."
"I don't care."
"They'll notice if I don't show."
"They'll notice more if you die."
A pause.
"This event matters," Andre said carefully. "There are people there I need to see."
"And people who want to see you bleed," Alexandra snapped.
The words hung between them, sharp.
Andre stood. "You don't get to make that decision alone."
Her jaw clenched. "Then you don't get to ignore the risk."
Silence stretched, tense and unfamiliar.
Finally, Andre exhaled. "What would make it acceptable?"
Alexandra hesitated. "Control."
"Meaning?"
"We leave early. You stay within arm's reach. No speeches. No surprises."
"And if I refuse?"
She met his gaze, unblinking. "Then you find another bodyguard."
For a long moment, she thought he might push back.
Instead, he nodded. "You're in charge."
Something shifted then—not relief, not victory.
Responsibility.
The gala was everything Alexandra hated.
Glass chandeliers. False smiles. People who mistook proximity to danger for power. She scanned the room constantly, her hand brushing Andre's sleeve whenever he drifted too far.
"You're tense," he murmured.
"You're breathing," she replied. "That's a win."
He almost smiled.
Halfway through the evening, she felt it.
A ripple. A subtle shift in attention. Eyes turning—not toward Andre, but toward her.
She stiffened.
"Alexandra?" Andre asked quietly.
"We're leaving," she said. "Now."
They moved fast but not fast enough.
Someone collided with Andre deliberately, spilling champagne, laughter erupting to cover the movement. Alexandra stepped between them instinctively.
A whisper brushed her ear.
"Still alive," a voice said. Familiar. Cold.
Her blood ran colder.
By the time she turned, the speaker was gone.
They were in the car seconds later, doors locked, engine roaring to life.
"Who was that?" Andre demanded.
Alexandra stared out the window, hands clenched tight.
"A reminder," she said.
"Of what?"
"That this isn't random."
She finally looked at him, something raw flickering across her face—anger, regret, something dangerously close to fear.
"They know me," she said. "And they're not done."
Andre watched her, realization dawning slowly.
"This started before me," he said.
"Yes."
"And you didn't tell me."
"No."
Another silence—thicker this time.
Andre spoke carefully. "You're still here."
"For now," she replied.
But as the city lights streaked past, Alexandra knew one thing with certainty:
The fault lines were widening.
And sooner or later, something was going to break.