Chapter 2
Dakota
The sun hasn't risen when I arrive at Anna Sinclair's house. Before ringing the doorbell, I scan each entry point, every blind spot in the security cameras, every possible vulnerability. I hate what I see. Every single bit of it.
“Your belongings have been moved to the east wing,” the sleepy-eyed housekeeper informs me. “Miss Sinclair insisted you have your own space.”
Of course, she did. I expected her to try to keep her distance.
My new bedroom is bigger than my entire apartment. Every room in the house seems to feature floor-to-ceiling windows offering stunning views of the garden.
And a perfect shot for a sniper from any of the surrounding hills.
“Master bedroom windows need replacement with bulletproof glass,” I text to her security chief.
“Miss Sinclair is having breakfast in the conservatory. She doesn't want to be disturbed,” the housekeeper announces.
The conservatory turns out to be a glass paradise, filled with exotic plants and perfect natural light. Anna sits at a small table, already dressed in a tailored suit, focused on reviewing her tablet.
“Morning,” I say, sliding into the chair next to her.
She looks up, confusion clouding her features.
“Didn't Maria tell you I don't want anyone bothering me during breakfast? I don't need a babysitter while I drink my coffee.”
“Yet here I am. We need to discuss your schedule for today,” I tell her, pouring myself a large cup.
“My schedule? You and me?”
“Among other things. We also need to establish our story. How we met, how long we've been dating. Someone's bound to ask for details, and our stories need to match.”
“My schedule isn't your business.”
“Actually, it is. That's literally my job. For instance, tonight's charity gala presents numerous security challenges. We need to-”
“Stop right there. I've attended dozens of these events and never had an incident. I don't need you there.”
“It'd look weird if you showed up without your girlfriend, don't you think? Besides, I spent a fortune on this gorgeous dress that conceals a couple of weapons perfectly. Been dying to wear it.”
“You're not seriously planning to bring weapons to a charity gala,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes.
“I'm always armed. You never know what you might run into.”
“Fine, do whatever you want. I'm not arguing.”
“Perfect. Now, want to tell me who hates you enough to want you dead?”
“I can think of a few people,” she sighs.
“Marcus mentioned something about technology you're developing, but he wouldn't give details.”
“It's sensitive information,” she snaps.
“Look, Anna, let me be clear. The more I know about you, your company, and the potential threat, the better I can do my job. And remember, my job is keeping you alive, so I'd say you have a pretty big interest in letting me know everything that's going on. No details spared,” I add, raising my eyebrows.
She rubs her neck and lets out a heavy breath, like she's weighing how much to tell me.
“Okay, see the sun?” she asks, pointing with her index finger.
I nod.
“Since childhood, we're taught it's the source of all life. The warmth on our skin, the light that makes plants grow. Everything comes from there, since before living beings existed. It's been a symbol of power, even something divine. But here's the secret — we don't need to control the sun, just understand how it works. And my company has done it,” she adds, lowering her voice.
“Some kind of super-efficient solar panel?”
“Solar energy is the past,” she states. “Imagine putting a piece of the sun inside a container. My technology will use the same principles that make that star shine up there. I'll fuse atoms to release clean, cheap, infinite energy.”
“What if one of your containers goes boom?”
My question must have irritated her because she rolls her eyes dramatically.
“If something fails, it just stops working. Shuts down. No explosions, no leaks. It's safer than a toaster.”
“Yeah, well, what about radioactive materials and all that crap? Don't tell me, you've bought some mines in some poor African country.”
“That's the best part.”
“The mines?”
“We use deuterium as fuel.”
“Deuterium?”
“It's a hydrogen isotope, and you know where it's found?” she asks, amused, like she's explaining a physics lesson to a child.
I shake my head, avoiding saying something stupid.
“In every drop of seawater. Isn't that incredible? It's huge. Practically inexhaustible and dirt cheap,” she explains with a proud smile. “The other component is tritium, which we regenerate inside the reactor itself. Both combine into a helium nucleus, releasing immense energy. We don't depend on mines, barely pollute, and don't deplete natural resources. The ocean has enough deuterium to power the world for millions of years. It would be the beginning of a new era.”
“Holy shit, now I get the threats,” I breathe, realizing the danger to her life might be far greater than she suspects.
***
That night, my eyes sweep the charity gala for potential threats. The average age at our table tops seventy, so I let my guard down during dinner — they shouldn't pose a danger.
“Your girlfriend is delightful, Anna,” says a gentleman next to her who hasn't taken his eyes off my neckline, earning more than one death glare from his wife.
“Don't let it bother you if someone mentions your difference in wealth. It happened to me often when I married James,” a white-haired woman squeezes my hand. “When they saw our marriage lasted many years, they tired of making such comments,” she adds with a broad smile.
“I'll remember that,” I assure her.
“When I was your age, I liked one of my girlfriends, but back then it wasn't accepted, so I never told her,” she whispers with a wink.
I smile, then catch an odd movement in my peripheral vision. A waiter approaches Anna with a drink she didn't order, and something about his movement seems off. Maybe I'm paranoid, but he's moving too direct. Too determined.
“Sorry,” I blurt, jumping up and knocking the tray to the floor.
The crash creates a small commotion. Several people rush to clean the mess. The waiter vanishes.
“What the hell are you doing?” Anna hisses, leaning close to whisper in my ear.
“Possibly saving your life.”
“That little show was completely unnecessary.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. His behavior was suspicious. Better safe than attending your funeral and losing my job.”
She rolls her eyes. Again, more dramatically than needed, but she doesn't protest. I guess deep down, she knows her safety depends on my paranoia.
The incident fades quickly, and while Anna talks business with the man on her left, the white-haired woman beside me insists on giving me all sorts of relationship advice.
“Sex is very important,” she persists, winking almost shyly. “If a couple doesn't work in bed, it's hard to last the first few years. So you need to keep her happy, if you know what I mean.”
A camera flash catches me before I can respond, and I'm almost grateful. I don't think I'm ready for that conversation right now.
Anna tenses at the reporters' questions. They're determined to know how we met, how long we've been together. Thank god she listened when we rehearsed our supposed story before coming.
“I think that's enough for tonight,” I announce, wrapping my arm protectively around her waist when I see her discomfort.
“I hate this stuff,” she sighs.
“You okay?” I ask softly, leaning close to her ear as if I'm about to kiss her.
“I just can't get used to it. This invasion of privacy. I just want to develop my technology — all this tabloid crap is my ex's fault.”
“The actress?”
“You knew?”
“I studied your files. Besides, that woman wasn't exactly subtle — practically dragged you anywhere she could get photographed with you.”
“Fucking bitch nearly drove me crazy,” she mutters before sliding into her limo. “Thanks for getting me out of there, by the way. You're good at this.”
“I'm good at my job, and tonight that meant making sure no one suspected I'm really your bodyguard. Getting you out of there is what any girlfriend who loved you would do.”
“And the waiter? Was he really a threat?”
“Don't know. We'll never know, actually,” I shrug. “In The Art of War, Sun Tzu said 'Avoid what is strong, attack what is weak.' Spilling the drink was the simplest solution.”
The rest of the ride passes in silence. I glance back occasionally to ensure we're not being followed. By the time we reach her mansion, our photo appears on several online publications and social media. #PowerCouple is the hashtag they've started using for us.
“I guess our supposed romance is established enough,” Anna says, sliding her finger across her phone screen to check the news.
“Makes my job easier,” I reply. “Now get some rest.”
But that night, in my bed, staring at one of the photos where we look hopelessly in love, I start to suspect my job might not be as easy as I first thought.