Chapter 13
ETHAN
I've failed her.
Sure, there's the high probability that the camera was placed before we installed our security system.
It doesn't ease my guilt.
As Mateo works, I take stock of our situation.
The perimeter alert that pulled us outside was likely a diversion, meant to draw attention away from something else.
Perhaps to test our reaction times. Or someone watching to see our response when Jade discovered them.
We'll need to review all security footage from this morning, check every inch of the property.
When she said she wanted to proceed with things as scheduled, that she won't be intimidated anymore, I felt proud.
Her words resonated somewhere deep inside me.
I recognized the steel in her spine, the refusal to be victimized.
It's the same determination that got me through the aftermath of my own betrayal, the same resolve that led me to start Cross Security rather than let someone else define my future.
But it's my job to keep her safe, not to admire her courage. And right now, keeping her safe means locking down.
I exchange a look with Declan, communicating silently.
He understands the gravity of the situation as well as I do.
This isn't just a stalker, this is someone with resources, someone who at some point had access to the interior of the house.
Someone who knows we are here and is testing us.
The threat level has just escalated exponentially.
"Mateo, complete the sweep," I order. "Every room, every possible hiding place. I want to know if there are more devices, and I want to know now. From now on, we have daily sweeps."
"Already on it," he confirms, packing up the disabled camera.
As the team disperses to their tasks, I find myself watching Jade. She stands in her living room, staring at the spot where the camera had been hidden, a complex mixture of emotions playing across her face. Violation. Fear. Anger. Resolve.
What I don't see is defeat. Not a trace of it.
The past three weeks have revealed layers to Jade Sinclair that I never expected when we took this assignment.
Beneath the polished exterior, beyond the Ice Queen reputation, there's a core of resilience that commands respect.
She's survived things that would break most people, carrying scars no one should have to bear, yet she stands straight-backed and unbowed.
And I've been noticing. Too much.
The midnight conversations. The quiet moments of vulnerability she's allowed me to witness. The way she laughs at Mateo's jokes, indulges Sophie's nervousness, challenges Declan's stoicism.
The way she's begun to trust us. To trust me.
I've been letting the lines blur, letting professional distance erode, allowing myself to see her as more than just a client. It's a dangerous path, one that compromises objectivity, creates blind spots, puts her at risk.
That ends now.
The stakes are too high for distractions. Whoever's targeting her has sophisticated equipment and a disturbing fixation that echoes her past trauma. They've already breached her home once. I won't give them another opportunity.
From now on, it's strictly professional. No more late-night conversations. No more shared confidences. No more moments of connection that have nothing to do with security protocols. I need to be her protector, not her friend. Certainly not anything more.
No matter what it costs me personally.
I walk through the house, mentally cataloging vulnerabilities, planning defensive positions, mapping response scenarios.
This is what I do best: turn chaos into order, fear into strategy, threats into tactical problems to be solved.
I can't eliminate the danger completely, but I can contain it, control it, mitigate it.
When I return to the living room, Jade is still there, watching Mateo work. She looks up as I approach, something unreadable in her green eyes.
"We'll find whoever did this," I tell her, keeping my voice professional, controlled. "But until we do, things are going to change around here."
"I know," she says simply.
"It won't be comfortable. Or convenient. But it's necessary."
"I understand." She holds my gaze steadily. "Thank you... for everything."
The simple gratitude catches me off guard. "Of course."
"Not everyone would," she continues. "Not everyone has."
I don't ask what she means. I don't need to. The pieces of her past that she's shared, the references to people who should have protected her but didn't, paint a clear enough picture.
"We've got you," I say, including the whole team in my statement, pushing the conversation back to professional ground. "And we'll keep you safe. It's our job."
She nods once, accepting both the promise and the distance I'm trying to establish.
As I turn away to coordinate with Declan, I feel her eyes on me still, sensing the shift in my demeanor, the renewed formality. It's necessary. It's the right call. It's the only way I can ensure her safety.
But as I walk away, the weight of what I'm sacrificing settles heavy on my shoulders. These past three weeks, as professional boundaries gradually relaxed and something deeper began to form, they felt like the beginning of something. Something I'm now deliberately walking away from.
The realization stops me cold: I've made this choice before. Put duty above connection, professional obligation above personal desire. And while it's the right decision, the responsible decision, I can't help wondering what it will cost me this time.
Because watching Jade stand in her violated sanctuary, facing her fear with quiet determination, I recognize an uncomfortable truth I've been avoiding for weeks: this isn't just a job anymore.
And she isn't just a client.
Which makes her the most dangerous assignment I've ever accepted.