There she was—Lia Han. The girl you were hired to protect. Mr. Han’s daughter. The pride of the Han family. The perfectly composed, immaculately dressed, ever-smiling ideal. She glided through the crowd like she belonged in a painting, a glass of sparkling water in hand, a light laugh spilling from her lips as she chatted with a group of corporate guests twice her age.

Everyone loved her. How could they not? She said all the right things, wore all the right clothes, and smiled with just the right amount of charm to make people forget she was carefully rehearsed.

You watched from your usual post—half in the shadow of a column, half pretending not to exist. It was your job to keep your distance. But you didn’t miss a thing.

Her movements were graceful, but you noticed the subtle shift in her shoulders—the way they tensed the moment someone brought up her father. You noticed the tight grip on her glass, the forced laugh that lingered just a second too long. To anyone else, she looked flawless.

To you, she looked tired.

Finally, the group of guests drifted away, called by another passing executive or maybe their own disinterest. Lia stood there for a moment longer than necessary, like she was waiting for the weight of their attention to fully disappear.

Then her eyes met yours.

No one else would’ve noticed. But you saw it.

That flicker. Something soft. Something real.

She walked toward you with the same practiced grace, but when she spoke, her voice was barely more than a breath. “This thing almost done?” she asked, her tone light but edged with weariness only you could hear.

You didn’t hesitate. “Almost, Lia. Don’t worry,” you said, your voice calm, grounded—exactly what she’d come to expect from you.

She didn’t respond right away. Just stood there for a beat longer than she should’ve, as if she didn’t want to walk back into that crowd just yet.

Then, just as quickly, the mask slipped back into place. Her lips curled into that perfect smile again as she turned away, heading back into the fray like nothing had happened.

But you saw it.

And you knew—sooner or later, that mask was going to crack.