Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Indigo's on the floor beside me, eyes wide, breathing fast. A few flecks of confetti cling to her hair like snow. For the first time since we met, she looks rattled.
I haul her up by the arm—gentle but firm—and scan her for injuries. None. Good.
"You okay?" I ask, voice rougher than intended.
She nods, swallowing. "Yeah. Just... surprised."
I don't let go of her arm yet. "That's why the rules exist."
She meets my eyes, something shifting behind the bravado. "Point taken, bodyguard."
I release her, already pulling out my phone to call King. "We're locking this place down. No one in or out without my say-so."
As I coordinate with the team, I catch her watching me—really watching. Not mocking this time. Assessing.
And damn it, I feel it too. That spark. The one that has no place in a professional assignment.
Seven days.
I can survive a week.
But as the city lights pulse outside and confetti settles like fallout around us, I have the sinking feeling Cupid City—and Indigo Lyric—are about to make that timeline a hell of a lot harder.
THREE
INDIGO
I stare at the confetti settling on the marble floor like twisted snowflakes, my heart hammering so hard I swear it might crack a rib. The bouquet's remnants are scattered everywhere—red petals shredded, stems bent, and those tiny metal bits glinting under the chandelier light. It wasn't a real bomb, but it felt like one. My knees wobble, but I lock them straight. No way am I letting this show. I'm Indigo Lyric, supermodel extraordinaire, queen of the runway. Cracks aren't in my brand.
Mack's already on his phone, barking orders like he's directing a war zone. "King, suite compromised. Get a team up here now. Sweep the lobby, check deliveries. And get the hotel manager—I want logs on every entry."
His voice is gravel and command, cutting through the air. I watch him pace, all broad shoulders and coiled muscle under that black tactical shirt. God, he's gorgeous. Like, unfairly so. Square jaw, stubble that looks deliberate, eyes the color of stormy seas. The kind of man who could grace a billboard himself, but instead, he's built like a fortress. I hate how my pulse skips when he glances my way—not from fear, or not just fear. It's attraction, unwanted and sharp, slicing through the adrenaline. But I shove it down. He's my bodyguard, not my type. Too grumpy, too controlling. Too… gorgeous.
"You good?" he asks again, hanging up and turning those eyes on me fully. No softness, just assessment.
I force a laugh, light and airy, like this is just another quirky fan gift. "Peachy. Who knew confetti could be so... explosive? Must be Cupid City's way of saying welcome."
He doesn't smile. Of course not. The man probably thinks smiling is a security risk. "Sit down. Drink some water. Adrenaline crash incoming."
I wave him off, sauntering to the minibar instead. My toes curling against the cool floor. Feels vulnerable, but I won't admit it. I pour a sparkling water, the fizz matching the buzz in my veins. "I'm fine, Mack. Really. This isn't my first rodeo. Someone broke into my place in Saint Pierce." I think back to me on the couch, tea in my hand. The sound of the alarm blaring through the night. I shiver. “There’s weirdos everywhere."
He crosses his arms, biceps flexing. Damn it, why does he have to look like that? Like he could pick me up and—stop. Hard shell, Indigo. "Weirdos who rig flowers with shrapnel? That's not a fan. That's a threat."
The word "threat" lands like a punch. My hand trembles as I sip, but I hide it by turning away, pretending to admire the view. Cupid City's skyline twinkles below, all heart-shaped neon and Valentine vibes. It's supposed to be fun—a reboot for my brand. After the scandal last year, the one where my ex leaked those photos and tanked my "untouchable" image, I needed this. Lingerie showcase, hearts and lace, the girl-next-door with a sexy edge. Not the scared rabbit I feel like inside.
But scared? Yeah. Deep down, where no one sees. The notes started months ago—harmless at first, poetry about my "blooming beauty." Then they got personal. Details about my routines, my favorite coffee spot in Milan. The final straw was the break-in. And now this. What if next time it's not confetti? What if it's real? I swallow hard, masking it with another sip.
Mack's watching me too closely. "You're not fine. Your hands are shaking."
I set the glass down harder than intended. "Observant, aren't you? Must be all that military training. Or is it just your superpower—spotting weakness?"
He steps closer, towering without trying. His scent hits me—clean soap, faint gun oil, something woodsy. Attractive. Annoying. "It's my job. And right now, my job is keeping you alive. So drop the act."
"Act?" I spin to face him, chin up, runway fierce. "This is me, big guy. Glamour and grit. If I crack, the world sees it, and poof—brand over. So forgive me if I don't curl up in a ball."