Trapped With My Billionaire Protector

Chapter 1- The Interruption

I didn't look up from my laptop. "Come in."

The door swung open. No hesitation, no pause for my response. The particular confidence of someone who didn't wait for permission, only the formality of it.

My fingers paused over the keyboard for a fraction of a second before resuming their efficient rhythm.

"Blaire."

That voice. Low and dark as burnt sugar, with an edge that could cut or comfort depending on what he wanted from you. I'd heard it in courtrooms and conference rooms—most of the time in arguments.

I finished my sentence. Saved the document. Only then did I look up.

Richard stood in my doorway holding a manila envelope, and he looked exactly like what he'd become: a man who built an empire by never waiting for permission.

Six-two, dark hair just starting to silver at the temples, expensive charcoal suit that fit the way three-thousand-dollar tailoring was supposed to fit.

I'd traced those silver threads once. and kissed the corner of that mouth. Learned the exact pitch of his voice when he came undone.

"You don't have an appointment," I said.

"Since when do I need one?" He stepped inside without invitation, and the air in the room shifted. Tightened. The same way it always did when we occupied the same space, like the atmosphere itself was bracing for impact.

I folded my hands on the desk. "Since you left this firm. Four years ago."

"You're counting." One corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. "Interesting."

I didn't give him the satisfaction of a response.

He moved to the chair across from my desk and sat down without being offered one. Ankle crossed over knee, envelope resting on his thigh. I forced myself to look back at my screen, even though I couldn't focus on a single word.

His gaze flicked to my desk: the coffee cup from the place on Fifth, the Montblanc pen at the same angle it had been for four years, the notepad I still kept even though I never wrote anything on it.

"You're still drinking that terrible dark roast," he said. Not a question. An observation.

The afternoon light cut through my office window at an angle that turned his eyes amber. I remembered this too: how the light changed them.

"What do you want?" I asked.

He held up the envelope. "To show you something."

"I'm busy."

"You're always busy." He tapped the envelope against his knee, a steady rhythm that made me want to grab it to stop the sound. "Five minutes."

"I don't have five minutes."

"Make them." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The six feet between us felt like six inches. "Please."

The please landed wrong. Too soft. Too genuine. Richard didn't say please, not in that tone, not unless something was seriously wrong.

I folded my hands tighter. "Show me."

He opened the envelope the way he did everything: quick, clean, no pause. The photographs he pulled out were 8x10, glossy, professional quality.

He placed them on my desk. Fanned them out like playing cards.

My car in the parking garage. Different days. I could tell from the timestamp in the corner. Three weeks ago. Two weeks. Last Thursday.

Me walking from my building to the coffee shop on the corner and early morning, judging by the light. The angle suggested someone standing across the street.

My office window at night, my silhouette visible through the glass, working late. Again.

And one more. My apartment. Living room window. I'm on the couch, laptop open, wearing the Yale Law t-shirt I only wore when no one can see.

The world tilted.

No one had seen me drop the act since the gala. Not Charlotte. Not Whit. Eight months of holding the line in private, because I knew what happened when people saw through you — they left, or they used it against you.

And now someone had been at my window with a telephoto lens, documenting exactly that.

"I don't—" I started, but my voice came out wrong. Thin. "Parking garages have cameras. I walk the same route every day. This is?—"

"These aren't security cameras." Richard's voice had gone flat. Professional. The voice he used in depositions when he was about to present damning evidence. "Look at the angles. Someone was following you."

My hands went cold. I made them stay still.

"I drive past your building sometimes," Richard said. "On my way to nowhere in particular."

The admission landed quietly and unguarded between us.

"When this envelope showed up at my office yesterday morning, I didn't open it alone.

I had Declan go through it first. Independent PI.

Former NYPD, intelligence side." He nodded at the photographs.

"He ran the images, traced the paper stock, checked the metadata.

Then he pulled your firm's security logs. Don't ask me how."

"You had no right?—"

"Your car was moved in the parking garage," he continued. "Different spot than where you parked it. And someone accessed your office after hours. Twice. When you weren't here."

My car was moved. Two weeks ago. I didn't remember the spot.

My office. After hours.

Someone had been inside.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

He didn't answer right away. He stood, walked to my window, and looked out at the Boston skyline stretching toward the harbor.

"Because yesterday they photographed you at home," he said quietly. "Through your apartment window."

"And before you ask why I'm here instead of just sending this to security, someone sent these to my office yesterday morning. No return address. Just the photos and a note." He paused. "It said, 'She doesn't need you anymore.'"

She doesn't need you anymore.

The phrasing was wrong. Not she doesn't want you. Not that she's moved on. Need. Like someone had been keeping track.

"Whoever this is, they know about us," Richard said. "They've done their research."

About us. There was no us anymore. Not for four years. Not since he left Whitmore & Locke to open Carlisle Strategic and I stayed, and we both pretended it was about career trajectories instead of the slow suffocation of two people who loved each other enough to destroy everything.

Eight months since the gala. Eight months since I stood on a stage and ended my own engagement in front of three hundred people, and Richard had been there when it was over. He didn't try to fix me. He stayed. Until I made sure he couldn't.

"And someone's stalking my—" Richard stopped himself. "Someone's stalking you. Staying away was hard enough when I thought you were safe."

The slip. My. My what? My ex? My problem? My still-give-a-damn-even-after-four-years?

I sat up straighter and kept myself under control. Always control.

"I don't appreciate?—"

"You think this is nothing?" Richard moved closer to the desk. "At least three weeks of surveillance. Professional equipment. They know your patterns. Your routines. When you're alone."

"That's not your problem."

"Isn't it?"

"We're not together anymore, Richard." I heard the ice in my own voice and welcomed it. "My safety isn't your concern."

"Right." He braced both hands on my desk, leaning in. His cologne registered now — something woody and expensive, the same scent I'd bought him for Christmas once. Either he'd never switched, or he'd gone back to it.

Close enough that I had to tilt my head to maintain eye contact.

I stood. Pushed my chair back. But he came around the desk before I could create distance, and I should have stepped back. Should have maintained space. Should have done anything except stand there while he moved toward me. Near enough that my eyes dropped to his mouth before I could stop them.

His gaze dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second. Just long enough that I knew he'd noticed, knew he was thinking the same thing I was trying not to think. The air between us was electric.

Neither of us moved.

"This is about you wanting to pretend," he said quietly, his voice rougher now. Lower. "You're afraid if you acknowledge this threat, if you let someone help, they might actually see?—"

"Stop."

"See that perfect, controlled, Sunshine Blaire," he said, the nickname with something between affection and contempt, "is an act you can't drop."

"Stop."

The word came out harder than I intended. My jaw locked. The framework of my composure threatened to slip, and I couldn't let that happen. Not here. Not with him.

Not when he'd always been able to see through me better than anyone.

I needed to step back. Put space between us. But I stayed planted where I was. His eyes caught the light, warmer than I remembered. That cologne — clean, expensive, familiar. His hands.

Richard's eyes searched my face. Looking for something. A weakness. A foothold. The truth I'd buried so deep I sometimes forgot I had it.

Then his expression changed. Softened into something that looked almost like regret.

"I'm not trying to hurt you," he said. I put distance between us. Reclaimed my chair, my territory, my control.

"Yes, you are." I made it sound almost pleasant, almost like I didn't care. "You're very good at it."

He flinched. Barely. Just enough that I knew I'd landed the hit.

Good.

"You do this thing," Richard said quietly, "when you're about to lie. Your left hand moves toward your pen. You did it just now."

I looked down. My hand was an inch away from my Montblanc.

Damn.

"You know what your problem is?" Richard picked up the envelope. "You think if you control everything long enough, if you pretend to be perfect for the rest of your life, eventually it'll feel real."

"Get out."

"But it never does, does it? It just gets lonelier."

"Get out."

He gathered the photographs, tapped them against his palm once, then placed them back on my desk. Face up. Each photo angled toward me. Evidence I couldn't ignore.

He walked toward the door, paused with his hand on the knob.

"There's one more thing." He didn't turn around. "My half-sister. Emma. My father had another family while he was still married to my mother. Found out six months ago." A beat. "Emma's flying in next month. We're having dinner — first time meeting face-to-face. March 12th."

He finally looked back at me.

"She asked if there was anyone important in my life. I told her about you." His mouth shifted slightly at one corner. "Four years and I still couldn't say was. You can say no. I'll understand."

I should have said no. Should have told him I wasn't part of his family. That I hadn't been for years. That whatever we had was long over.

Instead, I heard myself say, "I'll think about it."

"That's all I'm asking."

Then he was gone.