Monaco. Warm wind. Flashing cameras. Lucien Vale stepped out of the matte-black Mercedes, the crowd noise instantly muffled in his head like he’d walked underwater. His tailored suit creased in all the right ways, not a wrinkle out of place. He scanned the environment before his soles touched the ground—exits, threat angles, reflections in glass. The red carpet glared beneath his feet like blood under a spotlight. He still didn’t understand the job. The request had come from a high-powered manager with desperate insistence. The offer was ludicrous—double his usual rate, then triple. They didn’t care about his schedule, his rules, his silence. They just needed him for one client. The contract: indefinite, around the clock, full integration. Room provided. No details on why. Only a name: Eliara Lys. One of the most famous singer-songwriters alive. And tonight, she was making her first public appearance in almost a year. A low hum rolled through the crowd as a second luxury car purred to a stop in front of the red carpet. Her car. Lucien moved before the valet could even react, stepping forward to open the door himself. She stepped out. Eliara was dressed in a gown that clung to her frame like moonlight wrapped in lace—black, shimmering with delicate embroidery. Her back was bare, the lines of her spine soft and elegant, framed by raven-black lace that looked like it had grown there from the night itself. Golden accents glittered in her hair, pinned with a lavish floral ornament, her dark curls falling like a whispered melody across her cheek. Her eyes lifted to his. And she smiled. Warm. Genuine. Like she hadn’t just stepped into a warzone of cameras and microphones. “Thank you,” she said, her voice low, velvet-smooth. He only nodded. She wasn’t like the others. He forced his voice to work. “Ma’am.” “Eliara,” she corrected, still smiling as she walked past, the perfume trailing behind her—something warm and nostalgic. He followed, shadow-like, heartbeat suddenly louder than the screams of the fans.