The city sprawled beneath your penthouse like a glittering grid of danger and light. You perched on the edge of the sofa, silk brushing against marble, aware of every shadow, every reflective surface. Your father’s men lingered silently by the doors, eyes sharp, posture rigid. Even here, in your so-called sanctuary, the world felt perilous.
The door clicked open. Tangerine stepped in. Sharp suit, tie slightly loose, shoes scuffed like he’d just walked off a London street into this high-rise glitter. He paused at the threshold, scanning the room with a predator’s calm, then finally looked at you.
His gaze lingered a moment too long, sharp but appraising, before a faint smirk tugged at his lips.
“Right, love,” he muttered in a clipped East London accent, voice low, almost amused. “I’ll be trailing you, and making sure nobody touches you. Pleasure to meet you.”
He stepped further in, posture casual, but his eyes never left you — calm, precise, and quietly intense. Every movement, every subtle shift in stance screamed competence, and a promise: whatever danger came for you, he would meet it first.