Chapter 15
ETHAN
The words hang between us, charged with something beyond our usual sparring. I watch the flush creep across Jade's cheeks as her gaze drops from mine, and I fight the unprofessional urge to trace its path with my fingertips.
The gallery hums around us, but my focus has narrowed to the woman beside me, standing before the photograph of a mother and child amid hurricane destruction.
Something about this exhibition matters to her beyond professional networking.
I've been in security long enough to recognize when someone's holding back information.
"You seem to know a lot about these photographs," I say carefully, watching her reaction. "Do you know the artist?"
She stiffens slightly, almost imperceptibly. "No," she says too quickly, then adds, "Nobody does. That's the point of an anonymous exhibition."
"Then why was it so crucial for you to be here tonight? Important enough to risk your safety."
Jade steps closer to the photograph, her reflection ghosting over the glass. "Look at these women, Ethan." Her voice drops, intimate despite the crowd surrounding us. "Each one has survived something that should have broken them, yet here they are, captured in moments of strength."
I study the image of the mother nursing her child amid devastation, seeing it through new eyes. "The exhibition theme resonates with you."
"Women who've faced hardships and come out stronger?" A sad smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "Yes, it resonates."
There's more she isn't saying, something personal tethering her to these images. I've spent weeks in her home, guarding her body and her privacy, yet at this moment, I realize how little I truly know about Jade Sinclair beyond security briefings and public personas.
"That's Joanne," she murmurs, almost to herself, gesturing to the hurricane survivor.
I frown. "How do you know her name?"
Jade freezes momentarily, then recovers with practiced ease. "The gallery owner mentioned it earlier. Richard's quite knowledgeable about the collection."
The explanation is plausible, but my instincts tell me otherwise. In my line of work, noticing inconsistencies keeps people alive.
As she moves to the next photograph, an elderly woman with gnarled hands weaving an intricate basket, I take the opportunity to really look at Jade.
Not as my client or the celebrity model the world sees, but as the woman before me, eyes shining with genuine emotion as she absorbs these powerful images.
I've been so focused on potential external threats that I've missed what's been right in front of me: Jade Sinclair lives an isolated existence. No friends dropping by. No family calling. No lovers visiting. Just her staff and now us. Three men paid to protect her.
The realization sits heavy in my chest. Is that why she fought so hard to come tonight? Not just for the art or networking, but for connection to something meaningful?
"This woman," she says, pointing to a photograph of a miner covered in coal dust, her determined eyes piercing through the grime, "Helen. She was told mining wasn't women's work. Now she supervises an entire operation in Australia."
Again, a name not listed anywhere visible. Again, that personal connection that doesn't add up.
"You seem to know their stories intimately," I observe.
Jade's shoulders tense, but her voice remains steady. "These are the women who deserve to be celebrated. Not for their beauty or their bodies, but for their resilience. For continuing when it would have been easier to give up."
Something in her tone, a rawness, a vulnerability I've never heard from her before, makes me want to reach out, to bridge the professional gap I've maintained with such discipline.
Instead, I ask, "Is that how you see yourself? A survivor?"
Her eyes meet mine, startled by the directness of the question. For a breathless moment, her carefully constructed walls waver, and I glimpse something genuine beneath, a landscape of hurt and determination I hadn't expected.
"We're all surviving something, aren't we?" she finally says, her voice soft. "Some of us just hide it better than others."
The admission, however oblique, shifts something between us. This isn't the sharp-tongued Ice Queen the tabloids portray, or even the demanding client who challenged my security protocols hours earlier. This is someone else entirely, someone wounded but unbroken.
"Yes," I agree quietly. "Some of us do."
Her eyes search mine, and I wonder what she sees. The disciplined security professional? The ex-soldier? Or the man who's finding it increasingly difficult to maintain emotional distance from the woman he's sworn to protect?
"These exhibitions always have champagne, but never enough food," she says, smoothly changing the subject. "I'm starving."
I accept the deflection, knowing I've pushed as far as she'll allow for now. "The catering table is over there. I noticed they have those little quiche things you mentioned liking."
Surprise flickers across her features. "You remembered that?"
I shouldn't have. It was a casual comment made weeks ago during breakfast. How she'd developed a taste for mini quiches during a shoot in Paris. The kind of personal detail security professionals note and file away, nothing more.
Except I've been noting and filing away entirely too many details about Jade Sinclair. The way she absently twirls her hair when reading. How she hums off-key. The small, genuine smile she saves for Gloria's dry wit.
She narrows her eyes. "Careful, Ethan. You're starting to sound like you care."
She's trying to shift the power back. I let her. For now.
"Maybe I do," I say, surprising even myself. Then, quieter: "Maybe I care what happens to someone who knows how to see strength in strangers... but won't let anyone see her own."
Mateo chooses this moment to appear, his timing impeccable as always.
"Sorry to interrupt," he says, not looking sorry at all, "but I thought you'd want to know that Richard is gathering everyone for the toast to Sin Jay."
Jade's expression shifts, a flash of anxiety, before smoothing into polite interest. "We should join the others then."
As she walks ahead with Mateo, I watch her move through the crowd, graceful and poised.
But now I see beyond that practiced composure to the contradictions beneath: the woman who isolates herself yet craves connection; who guards her privacy fiercely yet puts herself in the public eye; who bristles at being protected yet seems deeply familiar with vulnerability.
Jade Sinclair is a puzzle with missing pieces, and against my better judgment, I find myself wanting to discover each one.
Not for the sake of security protocols or threat assessments, but because I'm starting to suspect there's far more to her than any of us, perhaps even Jade herself, has been willing to acknowledge.
I follow her to the center of the gallery, where Richard raises a glass to toast Sin Jay, whose work has captivated tonight's audience. As the crowd applauds, I notice Jade's eyes glistening with unshed tears, her hands trembling slightly as she brings her champagne to her lips.
Suddenly, a suspicion takes root.
I should leave it. Return to the periphery. Be the professional I swore I'd be. But I can't seem to make myself look away.
Jade Sinclair might be the client. She might be difficult, secretive, impulsive.
But she's also brave. Compassionate. Fierce in a way that doesn't demand attention but commands it anyway.
And damn me if I'm not beginning to want to know all of her secrets.