Chapter 14
JADE
"Absolutely not."
Two simple words, delivered in that infuriatingly calm, authoritative tone Ethan has perfected. The one that makes my blood boil, especially when it's directed at me as if I were a child rather than his employer.
"It wasn't a request," I counter, keeping my voice steady despite the frustration building in my chest. "I'm informing you of my plans. The gallery opening is tonight, and I'm going."
He stands near the windows, arms folded across that irritatingly broad chest, jaw tight enough to crack, the only visible sign that his legendary control is slipping.
The past week has changed things between us.
Between all of us, really. The discovery of the camera in my living room transformed the comfortable dynamic we'd built into something colder, more distant.
Professional boundaries snapped back into place with brutal efficiency.
No more late-night kitchen conversations. No more shared jokes at breakfast. No more runs with Declan that ended with philosophical discussions at the summit. No more tech tutorials from Mateo that inevitably devolved into absurd stories from his childhood.
Just security protocols, threat assessments, and suffocating vigilance.
"The security situation hasn't changed," Ethan says, his blue eyes locked on mine across the living room.
The same living room where someone watched me without my knowledge.
"We still don't know who planted that camera or delivered those photos.
Until we do, unnecessary public appearances aren't advisable. "
"This isn't unnecessary," I insist, holding my ground. "This is my career, my passion. The exhibition is from a new artist that critics are calling revolutionary. Missing this debut would be professional suicide."
What I don't say, what I can't say, is that the works are mine.
Years of secret photography, images I've created under a carefully guarded pseudonym.
Sin Jay. A part of my life that belongs only to me, not to the brand or the industry or the public.
My one true form of expression that's never been tainted by others' expectations.
"Your safety takes precedence over networking," Ethan counters. "The gallery will be crowded, with multiple entry points, limited security oversight, and no established guest list. It's a tactical nightmare."
"Then make it work," I snap, my patience finally fraying. "That's what I pay you for, isn't it? To figure out the security so I can live my life? Or did I misunderstand the service I'm buying?"
His expression darkens, and I know I've struck a nerve. The reminder that this is, at its core, a business relationship seems to bother him more than it should. Good. Let him feel some of the frustration I've been drowning in for the past week.
"There's something you're not telling us," he says suddenly, advancing into the room, closing the distance between us with measured steps. "Something about this exhibition, about why it's so important. It's more than just networking."
I take an involuntary step back, unsettled by his perception.
There's a reason he's good at his job. He notices too much, sees too clearly.
But some secrets I'll keep, for now. Tonight belongs to the anonymous artist the critics have been speculating about for months.
The mysterious and elusive photographer that nobody knows.
Not to Jade Sinclair, model and stalker victim.
"You're deflecting," I accuse. "This isn't about what I know or don't know. It's about you refusing to adapt to circumstances because it's inconvenient."
"Inconvenient?" Something flashes in his eyes. Anger, maybe, or disbelief. "You think this is about convenience? Someone breached our security, invaded your privacy, has been watching you for God knows how long. And now you're insisting on attending an event with minimal security preparation."
"I never said it would be easy!" My voice rises despite my efforts to maintain composure. "But hiding away isn't going to solve anything. They've already proven they can get to me here, in my own home. At least in public, with proper security, I have a fighting chance."
"A fighting chance?" Ethan steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "Is that what this is about? You want to draw them out?"
"What if I do?" I challenge, refusing to be intimidated by his proximity. "What if I'm tired of waiting for the next violation, the next threat? What if I want to face this head-on instead of cowering in fear?"
"That's not your call to make," he says, voice low and intense. "Security strategy isn't something you can dictate on a whim."
"It's my life!" I jab a finger into his chest, emphasizing each word. "My safety. My choice. Not yours. You work for me, remember?"
"I work to keep you alive," he counters, capturing my wrist in a gentle but unyielding grip. "Which sometimes means protecting you from your own reckless decisions."
"Let go," I warn, though I make no attempt to pull away. The warmth of his hand around my wrist sends an unwelcome current up my arm, a physical awareness I've been trying to suppress for days.
"You're being impulsive," he says, his voice softening slightly. "Reactive. That's exactly what they want. To push you into making mistakes."
"I know what I'm doing," I insist, though the conviction in my voice wavers. Standing this close to him, I can see the faint shadows beneath his eyes, evidence of sleepless nights spent reinforcing security systems, reviewing footage, searching for the threat that's targeting me.
He's worried about me. And that realization dissolves some of my anger, replacing it with a complicated knot of emotions I'm not ready to examine.
"Do you?" he asks quietly. "It looks like you're deliberately walking into danger to prove a point."
"Maybe I am," I admit, surprising both of us with my honesty. "Maybe I'm tired of having my movements dictated by fear. Maybe I need to reclaim some control over my life before I lose my mind in this beautiful prison."
"You're playing with fire, Sinclair."
"Then burn with me."
The silence crackles. We're close now. Too close. My chest rises and falls fast, and I feel the heat of him, the scent of him, clean and sharp and maddening. His grip loosens, but he doesn't step away. Neither do I.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
One breath. Two.
"You're infuriating," he mutters.
"Takes one to know one."
Something shifts in his expression. Resignation. "Then let us do our jobs properly," he says. "Give us time to secure the venue, establish protocols, and position backup teams. Don't just announce you're going hours before the event."
I hadn't considered that. I wasn't going to go to the opening. But then I realized that I was letting fear dictate my life. And in my hesitancy, I'd overlooked the practical aspects of what I was demanding. Still, I can't afford to miss tonight.
"How much time do you need?" I ask, my voice softer now.
"More than we have," he admits. "But we'll make it work."
I feel a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. "Was that so hard to say from the beginning?"
"Yes," he says bluntly. "Because it's a security compromise I don't want to make."
I become acutely aware that we're standing too close, his hand still loosely circling my wrist, our breathing synchronized in the quiet room. For a moment, I think something might shift between us, might crack the professional veneer that's been firmly in place all week.
Instead, he releases my wrist and steps back, his expression cooling once more.
"I'll coordinate with Mateo and Declan," he says, voice clipped. "We'll be ready by eight."
"Fine."
His only response is a curt nod before he disappears down the hallway, leaving me standing alone in the living room, my wrist still warm from his touch, our argument hanging unresolved in the air between us.
The Archer Gallery buzzes with the particular energy unique to Los Angeles art openings, equal parts genuine appreciation, social climbing, and industry networking.
Crystal champagne flutes clink delicately, conversation flows in carefully modulated tones designed to be heard without appearing to raise one's voice, and everyone pretends not to be constantly scanning the room for more important people to speak with.
I've been to hundreds of these events over the years, but tonight feels different. Tonight, I'm here as both observer and observed. The secretly featured artist and the publicly scrutinized celebrity. And always, always, the potential target.
My heart races as I move through the space, noting the precise arrangement of my photographs, still draped in black cloth, waiting for the big reveal at nine o'clock.
Only Richard, the gallery owner, knows the truth about Sin Jay's identity, the artist whose work has generated such buzz in the industry.
To everyone else, the mystery creator is this season's most tantalizing secret.
Ethan stands a few feet away, looking impossibly handsome in a charcoal suit that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders.
To anyone else, he appears to be just another wealthy patron of the arts, perhaps a tech entrepreneur or finance executive with cultural aspirations.
Only I know he's registering every entry point, every stranger who lingers too long nearby, every potential threat.
Outside, Mateo and Declan maintain positions covering the front and rear exits, equally transformed by their formal attire.
I caught a glimpse of them earlier. Mateo's usual playful energy channeled into sharp vigilance, Declan's imposing presence somehow more intimidating in a tailored suit, and I had to remind myself to breathe normally.