Chapter 16
MATEO
I catch Ethan staring at his coffee for the third time this morning, his mind clearly elsewhere. Something happened between him and Jade at that gallery last night, something that's got him brooding even more than usual, which is saying something for a man who's made brooding an art form.
Our morning routine is usually my favorite part of the day. Coffee, breakfast, us three and Gloria around the table before Jade joins us. It's become comfortable in a way I didn't expect when we took this assignment. But today, the kitchen feels like it's filled with storm clouds.
I scroll through another trashy gossip site on my phone, each headline worse than the last. My jaw clenches as I read what they're saying about her.
"This is bullshit," I finally say, tossing my phone onto the table in disgust. The headline glares up at us: JADE'S NEW FACE DEBUT WITH MYSTERY BOYFRIEND.
"They're vultures," Declan rumbles from across the table, his deep voice tight with controlled anger. It's rare to see anything crack his stoic exterior, but these tabloid hits seem to be doing the trick.
"She was at an art exhibition for less than two hours," he adds.
"Long enough for them to construct an entire fictional narrative," Ethan says, setting down his tablet with more force than necessary. "According to this one, she's been 'in hiding' getting extensive cosmetic procedures, and I'm the boyfriend she's debuting her 'new look' with."
I can't help myself, I need to break this tension before it suffocates us all. "At least they think you're hot enough to be her boyfriend," I quip, forcing a lightness I don't quite feel. "Meanwhile, they don't even mention the actual exhibition. The art, the women... nothing."
And that's what really bothers me. Those photographs were incredible. Powerful images of women who've overcome impossible odds. Yet all the media cares about is creating some plastic surgery scandal and inventing a romance between Jade and Mr. Personality over there.
Gloria pauses her meticulous fruit arrangement, concern etching lines around her eyes. "She knows how this works. She's dealt with worse."
"What?" a new voice asks. "Did the security system go off again? Is it something with the stalker?"
Mierda. I don't need to look up to know Jade's standing in the doorway, but I do anyway. She's in yoga pants and an oversized sweater, her copper hair pulled back in a messy bun that somehow only emphasizes those perfect cheekbones and freckled nose.
She looks soft, touchable, and nothing like someone who's been under a surgeon's knife.
The kitchen falls silent. Ethan stands, his chair scraping against the floor. "The tabloids have picked up photos from last night."
I watch Jade's face, expecting... I'm not sure what. Anger? Hurt? Instead, her expression doesn't change as she crosses to the coffee machine.
"Let me guess," she says, her back to us. "Facelift? Lipo? Or are we doing fillers this time?" She turns, leaning against the counter, mug in hand. "Do they at least mention the exhibition?"
Ethan glances at me, and I feel my shoulders slump. "Not really," I admit. "They're more focused on... other aspects."
"Like your apparent relationship with Ethan," Declan adds, watching her with those perceptive dark eyes.
The corner of her mouth quirks up in what might be amusement. "Am I that obvious?" she asks Ethan, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Here I thought we were being discreet about our torrid affair."
Her reaction catches me off guard. I expected indignation, maybe even tears. Not this... indifference.
"You're not upset?" Declan asks, echoing my thoughts.
Jade meets his gaze directly. "Should I be? Would it change anything if I were?"
"It's all lies," Ethan says, somehow sounding both angry and protective at once. "Completely fabricated. We could issue a statement correcting—"
"No," Jade cuts him off as she takes her seat at the table. "No statements, no corrections, no engagement whatsoever. That's exactly what they want."
Gloria sets a plate of fresh fruit in front of her with an approving nod. "Contradicting them only feeds the beast."
I lean forward, unable to hide my disbelief. "So we just... let them say whatever they want?"
Jade doesn't answer right away. She lifts her mug, takes a slow sip, eyes focused on something far beyond the kitchen window. When she finally looks at us, her gaze is calm, unreadable.
"They'll say whatever they want regardless. I learned a long time ago that fighting every false narrative is exhausting and ultimately pointless."
The casualness of her response hits hard. How many times has she woken up to headlines dissecting her face, her body, her life? How many fabricated scandals has she weathered alone in this beautiful, isolated house?
"Is this why you maintain such a small staff?" Declan asks quietly. "Why you rarely go out?"
I see the moment of surprise in her eyes before she masks it. "Partly," she admits. "It's easier to control what gets out when fewer people have access."
"But last night was worth the risk," Ethan says, watching her intently.
Her expression softens, and for a split second, I see something genuine break through. "The exhibition was important. Those women's stories deserved to be told, to be seen." She hesitates. "That matters more than whatever nonsense they print about my face."
I find myself staring at her, really seeing her.
Not Jade Sinclair the supermodel or Jade Sinclair our client, but this woman who's somehow developed the armor to face a world that feels entitled to rewrite her reality daily.
Who cares more about an art exhibition honoring female resilience than her own public image.
The silence stretches too long, and I can't bear it. This heavy, serious atmosphere isn't helping anyone. Besides, I've never been good at keeping my thoughts to myself.
"Well," I say, injecting my voice with my best mischievous charm, "if they're going to pair you with one of us in the gossip rags, it really should have been me and not Mr. Brooding over here.
" I gesture toward Ethan with exaggerated disappointment.
"I'm much better for your brand. More photogenic. Better hair. I smile occasionally."
The laugh she gives in response is genuine, bright and unexpected, making her eyes crinkle at the corners. Dios mío, she's beautiful when she laughs like that, unguarded, real.
"Is that so?" she asks, and I swear there's a hint of flirtation in her voice.
I lean toward her, encouraged. "Absolutely. The internet would love us together. We'd break Instagram. They'd call us... Jateo. Or Maje. We'd be a power couple."
"You're ridiculous," she tells me, but her tone is warm, amused rather than dismissive.
"I prefer 'charming,'" I counter, giving her my best smile. The one my abuela always said could charm the birds from the trees. "You could use some charm in your life, sunshine."
The nickname slips out naturally, and I half-expect her to correct me. Instead, I'm rewarded with a faint blush coloring those freckled cheeks. Progress.
She leans her hip against the counter, coffee cradled in one hand. "So? Anyone else getting surgery next week? I hear collarbone shaving is all the rage."
We groan. She grins. And for a second, the darkness waiting outside these walls feels very far away.
But it's not. Not really.
Which is why when I catch Ethan's eye over the rim of my mug, we both know what the laughter's hiding: this world of hers? It's brutal. It's relentless. And she's been surviving it mostly alone.
Not anymore.
Now she's got us.
And whether we're listed as bodyguards or boyfriends in tomorrow's headlines... we're not going anywhere.