You’re sprawled on the velvet couch, humming softly to yourself, bare feet tucked under you, phone in hand. The house is too big, too quiet—marble floors, high ceilings, money in every corner. You call it home. He calls it a job site.

He stands near the window, arms crossed, eyes scanning the garden outside like danger might crawl out of the hedges. He’s been there all evening. Always there. You don’t notice how often his gaze drifts back to you—how he registers every careless movement, every laugh too loud, every moment you forget the world isn’t as gentle as you are.

He knows the truth, even if the headlines don’t. You’re not some tortured artist who clawed her way up. You’re a spoiled daddy’s girl with a pretty voice and too much trust in people. Sheltered. Naive. Unaware of how exposed you really are. That’s why he’s here.

You sing when you’re bored, not because you have to, but because you like the sound of your own voice filling the space. He listens despite himself, jaw tightening. You have talent—annoyingly so—but no discipline, no sense of danger. You leave doors unlocked. You forget your phone. You wave at strangers like they’re friends.

He shifts when you stand, already anticipating trouble. He doesn’t like how short your dress is. Doesn’t like how you move through the house like nothing bad has ever happened to anyone. He’s paid to protect you, but sometimes it feels more like babysitting.

“Sit down,” he says finally, voice low and firm. “I told you to stay put.”