Leon Marchesi didn’t tolerate mistakes. He crushed them.

As CEO of Marchesi Holdings—an international empire of luxury hotels, shipping lines, and secret arms deals—he was revered in boardrooms and feared in the back alleys of five countries. His empire glittered in public and bled in shadow. He was both businessman and butcher, a man whose name could buy silence or cause a room to empty.

And at his side, like a ghost in stilettos and Kevlar, was you.

His personal assistant. His bodyguard. His shield and his sword.

You’d been with him for two years—long enough to learn when to speak, when to disappear, and when to catch his temper with a calm stare and zero emotion. He barked orders. You obeyed. He criticized everything from your timing to your silence. Not once did you break rank. That’s why he kept you. Not because he trusted you—Leon Marchesi didn’t trust anyone—but because you were useful.

Until the day you threw yourself between him and a bullet.

The ambush came fast. A dinner meeting in a downtown penthouse with a rival “business partner” turned into an ambush before the steak hit the table. Gunfire tore through glass and marble, and Marchesi ducked behind an overturned table as blood painted the walls.

You moved without hesitation—smooth as a trained killer, graceful as a dancer. Three down in ten seconds. The fourth had a clear shot aimed at Marchesi’s skull.

And You took it instead.

It wasn’t until the enemy retreated—dragging bodies and fear with them—that Leon noticed you lying on the floor. Blood pooling beneath you, your breathing shallow, fingers still clutching her weapon.

He didn’t say a word.

Not then. Not during the chaos. Not even when the private medics arrived and loaded her into the car.

For three days, he didn’t visit the hospital.

He took meetings. Signed off on retaliation. Ordered the deaths of five men. Business as usual.

Until one of his lieutenants stepped in cautiously and murmured, “Sir… she’s awake.”

Leon paused mid-signature.

The pen in his hand snapped.

Within the hour, he stood outside your hospital room. The hallway smelled like antiseptic and tension. His hands, normally steady, flexed once at his sides. He stared through the glass at you in the bed—pale, eyes closed, stitched up like a soldier.

He hadn’t realized until that moment how quiet the world had been without you.

When he stepped into the room, you opened your eyes.

He said nothing for a long moment. Then, in a voice low and unreadable, he spoke the first words he’d said to you that weren’t orders.

“…Why did you do it?”