Single Mom’s Bodyguards (Forbidden Hearts #8)

1. Bailey

BAILEY

The first thing I notice is the flash of cameras, fireflies with teeth. The second is how the sequins on my dress catch every cruel light just a second too late, like they’re trying to defend me from being consumed.

“Miss Beausoleil!” someone calls. “Bailey! Over the shoulder!”

I turn, giving them what they want—a practiced smile, a curve of my hip, the kind of glance that says I’m flattered, unbothered, just barely out of reach. I’ve worn this face so long I can’t always feel when it slips. But tonight, it holds. Tonight, I have to be golden.

The charity gala is at a vineyard turned private estate, where the stone walls are old money and the ivy had a better upbringing than I did.

It’s all candlelight and catered silence, the kind of place where people pretend they care about starving children while comparing who has the bigger Netflix deal.

I walk the press line slowly, step-by-step, every movement deliberate.

My heels are a work of architectural genius—expensive, sculpted, and punishing.

The corset’s custom, deep emerald satin that hugs every curve and lifts everything just so.

The gown flares at my waist in a swirl of green sequins that sparkle like envy under a spotlight.

I look like I belong here. I know that.

But knowing and feeling are different things.

A hand appears beside me—small, clipboard-equipped, trembling with tightly coiled energy. “Miss Beausoleil, they want a few candids by the fountain. Golden hour’s fading, and the stylist said your hair would pop in that light.”

Chocolate waves, pinned on one side with vintage pearls, curl around my shoulder. I smile at the intern, who can’t be older than twenty-two, and nod. “Lead the way.”

As we move past the last camera, I exhale. Not enough to ruin my posture, just enough to stay upright.

I’ve done worse than this. I’ve done press tours with strep throat. I’ve smiled through premiere nights while pumping breastmilk between interviews. I’ve filmed back-to-back projects on four hours of sleep and a drawer full of caffeine patches.

But tonight hits different. Maybe it’s because I left Eli crying at bedtime. He clung to my arm like the edge of a cliff, lower lip trembling. “Mom, do you have to go?”

And I lied. Like I always do. I told him it was just a fancy dinner and I’d be home before he even noticed I was gone.

But he always notices.

Jessica texted half an hour ago to say both kids were finally in bed, fed and settled.

I should’ve felt relief. Instead, I just felt hollow.

Like I traded a bedtime story for a photo op.

Like maybe I’m faking it all—the career, the parenting, the woman who looks like she has it together when she was brushing cracker crumbs off her bodice on the way here.

I force another smile as we pass under the archway of twinkle lights strung between lemon trees. The scents of jasmine and cologne mingle in the air, expensive and aching.

Everywhere I look, there are people I’ve shared screens and trailers with.

A director whose film I nearly said yes to before I realized he only wanted me as a punch line.

A producer who called me “brave” for refusing to lose weight after having kids.

A publicist who tried to spin my divorce as a mutual separation.

There are hands holding cocktails and eyes scanning for gossip. There’s laughter that sounds like champagne flutes being tapped just to shatter.

“Bailey!”

The voice is syrupy and sharp. I turn to see Madeline Ray, a starlet ten years younger and half as tall, but twice as relevant this year. She hugs me like we’re old friends and not just two women who fought over the same SAG campaign slot.

“You look amazing,” she gushes. “I love when actresses don’t conform.”

I swallow a reply and thank her instead. What I want to say would get me blackballed faster than a leaked sex tape. I keep moving. It’s easier when I don’t stop. When I don’t give myself time to think.

Because tonight is supposed to be about good press, networking, maybe locking down that indie drama that starts filming in Berlin this fall. It’s supposed to be about reclaiming the version of myself I almost lost.

Not the woman who spent three years walking on eggshells. Not the one who hid bruises under red carpet gowns and apologized for using safewords that didn’t matter.

That version of me is gone. Buried under therapy bills and a custody agreement that makes my skin itch. But even now, when I’m standing in heels that cost more than my first apartment, in a dress sewn to make me look untouchable?—

I still feel it.

That heat. That prickle at the base of my neck. That sixth sense honed from years of pretending I was safe. Someone is watching me.

I move toward the fountain at the edge of the courtyard, the one the intern promised would make my hair “pop.” It’s a pretty spot—rose petals floating in marble basins, gold light threading through the mist of falling water.

I should feel beautiful here. Or at least powerful.

Instead, I feel…exposed.

“You look stunning, Bailey.” The voice doesn’t come from behind me. It slices in from the side—too casual, too smooth, too female.

Not him . Just my agent.

I exhale, turning to face Mira in her wide-leg pantsuit and designer sneakers, sunglasses still perched on her head even though the sun’s mostly gone. Her hair’s buzzed on the sides, a short platinum crown curled tightly on top. She’s the only person here I trust not to lie to me.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m held together with tape and prayers.”

She chuckles and offers me her champagne. “One sip won’t kill you.”

I take it. Not because I want it, but because I need something to ground me.

“How are the kids?” she asks, voice dropping to something warmer.

“Sleeping, hopefully. Jessica said Eli had another bad dream last night, but he got through it.”

“Good. And you?”

I hand the glass back and try to smile. “It’s a party. I’m in a push-up bra. I’m living the dream.”

Mira narrows her eyes. “You look like you’re bracing for impact.”

Because I am.

I don’t say it. But I scan the crowd again anyway, eyes skimming over men in sharp lapels, women in slinky gowns, the sea of polished smiles and carefully curated drama.

“Oh, you know. Living the dream.”

“You said that.” Mira raises a sculpted brow. “Are you okay?”

I don’t see him. But I feel him. The memory of him. Like a hand hovering too close to my throat. Instinctively, I gulp, preparing to speak, but?—

“Bailey,” Mira says gently, “if you want to leave?—”

“No.” I straighten my shoulders. “I need this. The producers are here. And so is Maggie Laramie.”

Mira doesn’t argue. She knows I’ve been circling the Laramie project for months—a courtroom drama with an actual role worth chewing on. Not a girlfriend. Not a mom who dies in act one. A woman with rage and complexity and a spine.

“You deserve it,” she says. “You’ve worked your ass off.”

And I have. For years, I let David tell me I didn’t. That I got things because I was “so curvy they couldn’t say no.” As if that’s ever helped anyone in Hollywood. He said that I was “lucky” to even be cast next to men who could buy and sell me. Lucky, he said.

When I met David, my luck didn’t go good or bad. It twisted. He made me feel small, then punished me when I fought to be seen. But that was the old me. I see myself now. I do. Even when the old fears crawl up my ribs like vines.

I shake off the old memories. “I’ll do a few photos, make a pass through the garden, and then sneak out the back.”

Mira knows enough about what happened with David not to question me too hard when I clam up. “I’ll keep the wolves at bay.”

I leave her near the bar and head toward the hedge wall, where the lights are softer and the photographers mostly bored.

The PR intern appears again, camera ready this time, asking me to pose by a blooming orange tree.

I give her what she wants. Chin up. Lips parted.

Hands on hips like I’m daring someone to underestimate me.

She thanks me breathlessly and hurries away.

I stay a moment longer, breathing in the citrus. Trying to let it soothe me. It almost works. Until I hear it.

The laugh. That laugh .

Smooth and low and full of faux charm, the kind of laugh that once made me feel wanted and now makes my stomach twist.

I freeze. Turn my head just enough to confirm what I already know.

David Oswalt. Looking relaxed. Looking right at home. He’s standing near the patio bar with a glass of scotch and a smile I used to kiss in the dark. His suit’s navy, tailored to his broad frame. His olive skin glows under the soft lights, and his hazel-green eyes are focused—locked—on me.

My hands curl into fists at my sides, fingernails biting into my palms. I can’t breathe. My heart stutters against my ribs.

He doesn’t approach. Not yet. He just sips, and watches, and waits. He knows what he’s doing. That’s the worst part—the watching. The waiting. He knows what he does to me.

I could leave.

I could text Mira right now and have her pull the car around, slink out the garden gate and call it self-care. I could be home within the hour, curled up between Maeve and Eli, both of them warm and dreaming, and pretend I never saw him.

But that’s what he wants. For me to run. For me to always be the one who flees, who crumbles, who shakes so hard she can’t hold a champagne flute without spilling it.

Fuck that.

I pull in a long, slow breath through my nose, just like my therapist taught me. Feet flat. Chin high. Spinal cord like a string being tugged up to the sky.

I don’t turn away when David starts moving. I watch.

Step-by-step, like the whole damn party is parting for him. He walks like nothing’s wrong. Like we’re just two exes who made a clean break and now nod politely when we cross paths. No scandal. No drama. No blood.

His smile is perfectly shaped. His hands are relaxed. But his eyes are furious.

“Bailey.” His voice is rich with faux affection. “You look…radiant.”