Chapter 10
Paula
I have to read the article several times before the full scope of the disaster sinks in. That's not counting the endless calls and texts from my boss that I don't dare answer, though I can imagine the tone.
“Bodyguard or Girlfriend? Club Sources Confirm Iris Vance's Partner Is Actually Security Personnel,” the headline reads.
Below it, two photos. The first: Iris and me posing together at the gala, my hand on her back, her smile spectacular. The second: me at the same gala, six feet behind Iris, speaking into my earpiece mic, eyes sweeping the room. Operational posture. Nothing couple. Everything bodyguard.
Goddamn it. Rookie mistake.
Both photos are from the same event. Same night. Same person. But they tell very different stories.
And the second one destroys the first.
I read the full article. Five hundred words citing an alleged club employee who requested anonymity. The details are precise: my firm's name, even my private security license. Whoever did this meant to cause damage, and they did.
Everything accurate. Everything true. Everything laid out clean.
My phone keeps buzzing. Two more from my boss. Three from Alexandra Drummond. One from Hades.
It's a disaster.
My first thought isn't tactical. It's Iris.
I dial her number. Rings. Rings. Rings.
“Yeah?” she answers, voice rough. Half asleep.
“Iris. Don't look at your phone. I'm coming to your room.”
“Jesus, Paula. What time is it? Is it six? Are you seriously waking me up at six in the morning?” she groans.
She opens the door in pajamas, eyes half shut, a pillow crease still on her cheek.
“What's going on? You're scaring me.”
“You should sit down,” I murmur, pointing at the bed.
“Oh man, if you're telling me to sit down, it's something really bad. Just tell me what the hell is going on,” she snaps.
“It leaked. A digital outlet published that I'm your bodyguard. They have contract details, my firm, my military background. Everything,” I admit, biting my lower lip and looking away.
Iris goes still. She doesn't even blink.
“Who? Who could've done this? Only a handful of people knew.”
“They cite an anonymous source within the club, but with something like this you can never be completely sure.”
“Wait, someone from the club sold my security to a media outlet? Are you serious?”
“That's what it looks like, but like I said, it could never be—”
“And now everyone knows we're not a couple?”
“Everyone will know by the end of the day,” I admit.
Iris sits on the bed. Slow. Stares at the wall.
“The stalker will know too, right?” she asks, voice dropping.
“Probably. Almost certainly.”
“Shit,” she breathes.
She sits with her hands on her knees, breathing hard. The TV is off. The note I left her a few days ago is still in the open nightstand drawer. I can see it from here.
“Does Alex know?” she asks.
“I have several missed calls from her.”
“Hades?”
“Her too.”
“Good. Get everyone in the conference room at the club. One hour. I'm going to shower.”
“Iris, I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize. Find out which son of a bitch sold me to a sports website for a handful of dollars or just to screw me over,” she growls, and disappears toward the bathroom.
***
The tension in the club's conference room could be cut with a butter knife.
Alexandra Drummond sits at the head. Gray suit. Her usual poker face has turned to pure fury. I'm certain it wasn't her. Hades sits to her left, arms crossed, jaw locked. It wasn't her either.
“How the hell did this get out?” the coach asks. The vein in her neck visible. “How many people knew the details of the contract?”
“Inside the club, you two, the head of security, and Iris. At my firm, my boss and me.”
“Someone talked,” Hades insists.
“I think it's more likely someone hacked a club computer or a phone to access the files. There are too few of us for someone on the inside to have leaked it.”
Alexandra Drummond takes notes while Hades clenches her teeth and slams a hand on the table.
“Is anyone going to ask me what I want?” Iris says.
We all turn to look at her.
“Because I've spent weeks living with a cover story you built without even asking me.
You assigned me a bodyguard I didn't ask for.
You told me to fake a relationship without giving me another option.
And now that the cover's blown, here we are, the four of us deciding what to do, and you're still not including me in any of it.
Just a reminder: this is my life. My safety.
My so-called girlfriend. Does anyone want to know what I think?
Or are you going to keep pretending I don't exist?”
She says it calm. Zero jokes. Alexandra and Hades glance at each other.
“What do you want to do?” the club director asks at last.
“I want to talk.”
“To who?”
“To everyone. On Instagram. A live video. No script. No filter. Nobody telling me what I can or can't say.”
“Iris, I don't think that's wise—” Hades starts.
“I'm not asking permission. I'm informing you. Because it's my life, not yours, or Alex's.”
“A video could make things worse,” the coach insists. “If you confirm the bodyguard, the stalker knows you felt threatened, and that emboldens him. If you deny it, they'll catch you lying in less than twenty-four hours.”
“I'm not going to confirm or deny. I'm going to say exactly what I want to say and nothing more. That usually works for me, right? Remember preseason last year when they attacked Zoe, calling her a bad mother?”
“That worked because it was spontaneous and because you had a ton of photos and videos showing the truth,” Alexandra Drummond cuts in. “This is a response to a crisis. It's different.”
“It's not different. Last time I was pissed too. The only thing that's changed is now I'm even more pissed,” Iris says.
I look at her. She's furious. But underneath that fury, there's control. Iris Vance, who does everything on impulse, is choosing her words with a precision I haven't seen before.
“Do it,” I say. “Go ahead.”
All three of them stare at me.
“It's her image. Her life. Her call. And it worked last time. Not because it was spontaneous, but because it was true. Iris telling the truth is more powerful than any official club statement,” I explain.
Iris holds my gaze, and I can see gratitude in her eyes. Not just because I'm backing her decision. Because I'm seeing the real Iris.
“I want to see it before you post. Don't do anything without approval,” the club director demands.
“You'll see it at the same time as everybody else,” Iris answers, steady. “Because if you edit it, it stops being mine. And if it's not mine, it doesn't work. So I'll go live,” she adds, and walks out of the room.
Hades pins me with a look. Furious.
“I hope you know what you're doing, Delgado. Because this could all go to hell.”
***
The video is one minute and fifteen seconds.
She shoots it sitting on her bed. At least she's cleaned up a little. No makeup. Team hoodie. Same look as last year's video. On purpose.
“Hey. I'm Iris Vance. I'm guessing you've read some weird stuff about me this morning.
So let me be real clear. Yes, I'm with someone.
No, I'm not giving you details. Not because I have something to hide, but because my private life is just that.
Private. If you want to talk about soccer, we can talk about soccer all day long.
If you want to talk about my goals, my fouls, my yellow cards, all the times I hit the damn post, go for it.
If you want to get into my love life, with all due respect: go screw yourselves. We're cool. Because it's my life.”
A long pause. Eyes straight into the camera.
“Oh, and one more thing. To whoever leaked private information from the club, I want you to know something: you sold my life and my safety to cause damage or to make a few bucks, I don't know which.
What I do know is you're a coward. And when I find out who you are, and I will, we're going to have a face-to-face chat. Me and my girlfriend.”
She posts it. One point three million followers.
Within thirty minutes, it explodes. Comments pour in by the thousands. “Iris Vance for president.” “Leave her alone already.” “We're cool, always.” “This woman is a national treasure.” “When we find out who leaked it, they'd better start hiding.”
But the press doesn't back off. Two digital outlets keep pushing. A popular sports podcast too, and several media outlets request a meeting with my firm.
The video buys time. It doesn't close the story.
Proof: at nine p.m., @yoursecondskinseesyouforreal publishes a new blog post.
Title: Are They Protecting You From Me?
“So they gave you a bodyguard. They think I'm dangerous.
I'm not. I'm not, Iris. I'm the only one who truly knows you.
The dark-haired woman isn't your girlfriend.
I already knew that. I knew from the first moment.
You can see it in her eyes: she watches you, she doesn't love you.
But I do love you. And I'm going to prove it.
When you're ready. When you realize that everyone around you is just using you and I'm the only one who truly loves you.”
I have to read it several times.
“I'm the only one who loves you.”
I save the screenshot and send it to my firm's security team and the police. I update the threat profile: risk level high, progression toward the action phase confirmed.
Iris knocks a little later.
“You saw the blog, right?” she asks before stepping in.
“I saw it.”
“Can I come in?”
It's the first time she's been in my room since I got here. It's her apartment, but I've kept the door closed out of professional habit for weeks, and she's respected that.
“Damn, it's so neat in here,” she jokes. “I just wanted you to know that what he wrote… he's an idiot. I know how you look at me and there's a lot more than surveillance in it. You'll figure that out the day you stop fighting it.”
“Are you worried?”
“Yeah, but having you here helps a lot. Alex asked if I wanted to switch to a full security team now that the cover's blown. I told her no,” she admits, sitting on my bed. “Can I sleep here tonight?” she asks.
I should say no. I should keep the distance, the rules that no longer exist because I broke them myself when I kissed her in her room on a Tuesday night a week ago.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Which side do you like?”
“The left.”
“See? We're compatible. I always sleep on the right,” she says, and starts getting undressed.