Chapter 6 NICK
NICK
"Credentialed entry at every door. No exceptions."
“Absolutely,” Gabriel Noble assures me. My former chief of security, now head of his own private outfit, sits on the other side of the desk from me. Beck occupies the chair beside him, legal pad covered in his sharp handwriting.
Gabe’s got his tablet in hand, running through logistics with the same tactical precision he always brought to Baine International.
His voice is steady, methodical, but I'm already three steps ahead, mapping the gaps in what he's proposing.
The church is defensible. Limited access, controlled sightlines, one main entrance we can bottleneck.
The reception venue is the problem. Multiple service entrances, catering staff rotating in and out for the duration of the event.
"Do we have guest list verification covered?" I ask.
He nods. "Cross-referenced against your approved roster.
Photo ID required. Anyone not on the list doesn't get through the door.
" Gabe scrolls through something on his screen, then turns it to show me the floor plan schematic.
"Press will be confined to this designated area.
Roped off, supervised. No opportunity to roam. "
"And if they try?"
"My team will escort them out. Quietly, of course. But firmly."
I nod, but my jaw tightens at the memory that surfaces unbidden. Yesterday afternoon outside House of Delaire. The swarm descending, a dozen photographers materializing from nowhere, cameras already raised, shouting ugly questions.
"Nick! How does it feel marrying a woman whose mother's a convicted killer?"
"Did you pay for your mother-in-law’s parole, Nick?"
"Avery, what do you say to people who think you're a gold-digger?"
The sonsofbitches. I wanted to break every one of their cameras with my bare hands and shove them down their throats.
"The photographers outside the wedding dress designer’s studio yesterday," I say, keeping my voice level. "It seems like they were coordinated. They had their cameras up before we stepped outside."
Gabe's expression sharpens. "Yeah, that doesn’t sound random. Someone must’ve tipped them off about the appointment."
The possibility sits wrong in my chest. A leak somewhere.
I can’t imagine any of Avery’s friends betraying her like that.
Serena Delaire’s reputation for confidentiality is impeccable, so it’s equally difficult to think that she or her employees would jeopardize the house’s reputation just for a personal payday.
But who does that leave? Someone else in our orbit?
The thought courses through me, leaving cold anger in my veins.
"I'd recommend a protective detail on Avery," Gabe continues. "Discreet. Two-person rotation, plainclothes, maintaining distance. Not bodyguards, just a buffer between her and anyone who gets too aggressive."
Every instinct I have screams yes. Lock it down. Shield her. Keep her safe from the vultures who think they have any right to her space, her peace, her person.
But I can still feel the way she pulled back this morning when I suggested she let Patrick drive her to the studio. The flash of something stubborn and proud in her green eyes. I love my freedom. I don’t want to let a few assholes take that away from me.
She drove herself. Insisted on it.
Avery values being free to move through the city without feeling surveilled, controlled, caged. She spent too many years trapped by circumstances beyond her control. I won't be another cage, no matter how gilded.
But yesterday's assault isn’t going to leave my memory anytime soon. Her hand tightening on my arm as the photographers closed in. The way her breath quickened, shallow and fast. The smile she wore like armor while her pulse raced beneath my fingers.
I can't let that happen again.
The war inside me is brief but brutal. Protect her. Respect her. Both demands pulling in opposite directions, and no clean way to satisfy them both.
"I'll talk to her first," I say finally. The words cost me something. "I won't put a detail on her without her agreement. But have the team ready. If she says yes, I want them in place within the hour."
Gabe nods once. "Understood."
Beck looks up from his notes. "The photographers from yesterday—if they cross lines again, we handle it through legal channels. Harassment documentation, restraining orders if necessary. We build a case."
I hear what he's not saying: Don't do anything stupid. Don't give them a story.
He's right. I know he's right. But part of me wants to hunt down every one of those bastards and make them regret ever pointing a lens at the woman I intend to marry. That part of me doesn't care about legal strategy.
I force myself to nod. "Sure. Whatever it takes to keep her safe."
I’ve no sooner said it when my phone buzzes on the desk. I glance down at the display.
Avery.
I answer before the second ring. "Hey, beautiful."
"Nick." Her voice comes through shaking, raw, stripped of everything but fear.
My body goes still. That voice. I've never heard her sound like this—not even when she told me about Martin Coyle, about what he did to her, about the night that sonofabitch took his last breath. This is something else. Something that's cracked her open.
“What’s wrong?”
"Nick, there's—there's an article. Online. It’s about my mother. About me."
"What article?" I keep my voice calm. Controlled. For her. "Tell me."
"They interviewed her. They twisted everything she said, and it's—" Her breath hitches, a sound that cuts straight through my chest. "Everyone's going to see it. Everyone's going to know."
I'm already sitting forward, every nerve alert. Gabe and Beck have gone silent, watching me.
"Send me the link. Right now."
A pause. Then my phone buzzes with her text and a URL from some city gossip outlet I don't recognize.
"Hold on." I put her on speaker, pull up the link. "I'm looking at it now."
The page loads.
The headline hits first. It’s salacious, worded like a cheap tabloid hit piece. The subheadline is even worse, exploiting Avery’s mother’s prison conviction and attempting to paint Avery as a gold digger.
Fury ignites inside me as I scroll down to read more.
Two photos sit side by side. The first is Brenda's mugshot from years ago. Harsh lighting, hollow eyes, a woman who'd just sacrificed everything to protect her daughter. The second is Avery at some charity gala from last year, dressed in designer silk, diamonds at her throat, smiling on my arm.
The contrast is deliberate. Calculated. Look where she came from. Look what she's pretending to be now.
I keep scrolling, and the violations mount with every paragraph.
Quotes from Brenda, clearly manipulated.
Innocent words about Avery's talent and determination twisted into implications of scheming ambition.
Details about their poverty in rural Pennsylvania, laid out for strangers to pick through like carrion.
Martin Coyle's death. The shooting. Brenda's conviction.
Does Dominic Baine know what he's marrying into?
I read that line, and something inside me goes very quiet.
Not hot. Not explosive. Something colder. Sharper.
They used Brenda. That gentle, broken woman who spent twelve years in prison to protect her daughter from a truth no child should have to carry. They put a microphone in front of her grief and twisted every word.
But worse than that—worse than anything—they put Avery in their crosshairs.
Dragged her past into daylight. Stripped her bare for public consumption. Turned her trauma into entertainment for people who will never know her suffering, her strength, or the courage it took for her to build a life from the wreckage of what was done to her.
They violated her, as callously as her stepfather had when she was an innocent teen.
And these bastards did it for clicks.
"Nick?" Avery's voice comes through the speaker, small and scared. "Are you still there?"
I realize I've stopped breathing.
I force air into my lungs. Force my voice steady.
"I'm here, sweetheart. Where are you right now?"
"In my car. Outside the studio."
"Good. Get home. Right now. Don't stop, don't talk to anyone. Just get home safe."
"My mom. Nick, she would never do this on purpose. I need to call her, I need to—"
"I know." I cut through as gently as I can manage. "I know she wouldn't. We'll figure that out. But right now, I just need you to get home safely. Can you do that for me?"
A shaky breath. "Okay. I will."
"I’ll be right behind you. I'm leaving right now."
I end the call and turn the phone toward Beck and Gabe, letting them read the article on my phone’s display.
Beck's expression hardens as he scrolls. Gabe's jaw tightens, the only sign of anger from a man who's seen worse than tabloid cruelty.
"I want everything we can get on the outlet that published this." My voice comes out flat. Cold. "Ownership structure. Parent company. Financials. Advertising partners. Outstanding debts. Pending litigation. Everything."
Beck is already pulling out his phone. "I'll have the research team on it immediately."
"Not tonight. Not within the hour." I meet his eyes. "Now, Beck."
He nods once and starts making calls.
Gabe rises to his feet. "I'll have a team at your building ASAP. Lobby secured, escort ready for Avery from the garage to the penthouse." He's already texting. "If any photographers show up, they won't get within fifty feet of her."
"Thank you." The words feel inadequate, but they're all I have.
I grab my jacket from the back of my chair and head for the door. Don't bother putting it on. Every second I'm not moving toward her feels like a waste.
"Nick." Gabe's voice stops me at the threshold. "We've got the security handled. Beck's got the intel. Go be with her."
I nod once. Then I'm through the door and striding down the corridor, footsteps sharp on marble.
Lily looks up from her desk as I pass. "Mr. Baine, is everything—"
I don't stop. I can’t. Every cell in my body is pulling toward Avery, toward home, toward the only thing that matters.
The elevator opens the moment I hit the button. I step in, punch the parking garage level, and watch the doors close.
Alone.
For the first time since her voice broke over the phone, I let myself feel it.
The black, animal rage.
Someone approved this story. Someone signed off on using Brenda.
Someone decided that Avery's pain was worth monetizing, that her past was public property, that the woman I love could be dissected for strangers' entertainment.
I'm going to find out who.
And then I'm going to make them understand exactly what it costs to touch what's mine.