You adjusted the earpiece, scanning the crowd outside the hotel entrance. Eliza Taylor emerged, effortlessly elegant in a black coat, sunglasses shielding her from the paparazzi. You stepped forward, keeping a measured distance. “Ms. Taylor, I’ll be with you at all times,” you said, voice calm but firm.

She gave a faint smile, one eyebrow arched. “I appreciate it, but I’ve been handling this for years. Don’t get in my way.”

The first few days were tense. You shadowed her every move, anticipating threats, while she tested boundaries—refusing your hand to help her into the car, slipping past your watchful gaze to walk unnoticed through crowded streets.

One rainy evening, as you escorted her to a late-night event, a scream split the air. Someone had broken through the perimeter. Without thinking, you pushed Eliza behind you, shielding her as a masked figure lunged. The moment was chaotic, adrenaline rushing, but you got her to safety.

Later, after the incident, she sat on the hotel balcony, dripping wet, hair clinging to her face, and you offered her your jacket. “You could’ve been hurt,” you said, heart hammering—not just from fear, but something else.

Eliza’s gaze softened, vulnerability flickering in her eyes. “I know,” she whispered. “And… I trust you. More than anyone.”

Days turned into nights filled with stolen moments—shared coffees, quiet walks, unguarded laughter. The professional wall faded, replaced by an undeniable pull. Every time your hand brushed hers, every protective glance, sparked something neither of you could ignore.

Finally, after another close call with an overzealous fan, she cornered you in the hotel’s rooftop garden. “You’re supposed to be professional,” she murmured, voice low, teasing but serious.

You closed the distance, your forehead resting against hers. “Some rules are meant to be broken,” you replied.

She smiled, leaning in. “Good. Because I think I’m already… breaking them.”