Chapter 19 MATEO
MATEO
"Will you stay close? While we're shooting, I mean. I think... I think it would help to be able to see you."
Her words have been echoing in my head for the last few days.
Through the rest of the photoshoot. Through dinners at the resort.
Through the drive to the airport. And now, as our plane cuts through darkness somewhere over the Pacific, they're still there, a quiet admission that I can't seem to shake.
She needed me. Not just as security. As something else. Something more.
The sleek cocoon of my first-class suite is quiet. Luxurious. Private. But I can't sleep.
Not with her so close.
My suite on this Emirates flight is ridiculous. A private cabin with sliding doors, a lie-flat bed, minibar, and a television larger than the one I had in my first apartment. When Jade insisted on booking me the same accommodations she had, I thought she was joking.
"You're not sitting in coach for fourteen hours because of me," she'd said as we reviewed the flight options.
"I've flown in cargo holds with less legroom than coach," I'd countered, remembering missions in countries I still can't name on official documents.
She'd fixed me with that level green stare. "That doesn't make it okay. Either we both have suites, or I'm flying coach too."
I knew she meant it. Just like I knew Ethan would absolutely murder me if I let Jade Sinclair sit in economy, where anyone could approach her, photograph her, or worse. So here I am, surrounded by luxury that makes me both uncomfortable and grateful.
It's just one more way she's different from other clients I've protected. Most celebrities I've guarded flew private jets while relegating staff to commercial flights, expected us to blend into the background until needed, treated us as functional furniture rather than people.
Not Jade. She insisted on flying commercial. "The carbon footprint of private jets is inexcusable when alternatives exist," she'd explained when I questioned the choice. And made sure I was treated as a traveling companion rather than staff.
That's the thing about her that keeps throwing me off-balance.
The moments of genuine consideration that crack through her carefully maintained professional facade.
The woman the world calls the Ice Queen runs hot just beneath the surface, caring about things most people in her position never give a second thought, like the environmental impact of her travel choices and the comfort of her security detail.
And then there were the swimsuits. Dios mío, the swimsuits.
Three days of watching her pose in scraps of fabric that revealed more than they covered.
Three days of maintaining a professionally neutral expression while my body betrayed me at every turn.
Three days of reminding myself that I'm here to protect her, not to stare at the curve of her waist or the freckles scattered across her shoulders like constellations I wanted to map with my fingertips.
It was torture. Exquisite, maddening torture.
The worst was watching that photographer, Julian, with his European accent and knowing smiles, circling her like a shark scenting blood.
The casual touches as he adjusted her pose.
The inside jokes about previous shoots they'd done together.
The way his eyes lingered on her body when he thought no one was watching.
I wanted to break his fingers one by one. Not because he was a threat. My threat assessment had cleared him days ago. But because he was free to look at her in ways I couldn't allow myself to. Because he was free to touch her.
Jealousy. There's no other word for it. Unprofessional, inappropriate, undeniable jealousy.
Ethan would have my ass if he knew. Hell, I should have my own ass for letting my guard down like this. We have one job. Keep her safe, and feelings just complicate that.
But then she'd panicked at the water's edge, and everything else fell away. Seeing the fear in her eyes, the way her breath shortened and her skin paled, triggered something primal in me. At that moment, my only thought was getting her away from whatever was causing her pain.
I close my eyes, remembering the weight of her hands in mine as I coached her through breathing exercises. The vulnerability in her expression when she admitted her fear. The trust it must have taken for someone so fiercely independent to let me see her at her weakest.
Mi reina.
The nickname slipped out naturally, replacing the "sunshine" I'd been using. It fit her better somehow. Regal even in distress, commanding even when vulnerable.
I've had crushes on clients before. Brief, stupid, surface-level things. But this isn't that. This is rooted in something deeper, something electric and alive and steady all at once.
I glance at the little tray table where she left a wrapped chocolate bar earlier, pressed into my palm with a teasing smile and a wink.
"Payment for rescuing damsels in distress," she said.
My jaw tightens. This flight is fourteen hours of torture, because now every detail about her is stuck under my skin. And no amount of charm or protocol is peeling it out.
A soft ping from my phone interrupts my thoughts. A text from Ethan: Any updates?
I type back quickly: All quiet. Landing in 5 hours. She's resting.
His response is immediate: Stay alert.
As if he needs to say it. I will keep her safe.
I rise from the lie-flat bed, restless energy pushing me to check on Jade yet again. I've been rotating between my suite and the corridor outside hers every thirty minutes, hypervigilant in a way that probably crosses the line from professional protection into something more obsessive.
I can't help it. Something about the incident at the waterfall, about seeing her so vulnerable, has triggered every protective instinct I possess. I've guarded politicians, musicians, tech billionaires, but I've never felt this... invested in someone's safety before.
It's not just the job anymore. It's her. Specifically, uniquely her.
Dangerous territory, Rivera. Get your head on straight.
I slide open my suite door and step into the dimly lit upper deck corridor. At this hour, most passengers are sleeping, the cabin quiet except for the distant hum of engines. Jade's suite is directly across from mine, its door securely closed.
As I walk down the corridor to do my routine check, a movement at the opposing end catches my attention. A flight attendant, moving with the practiced silence of someone trying not to wake passengers, is approaching Jade's suite.
Nothing unusual about that, except for the phone in her hand, screen illuminated and camera app open.
My blood goes cold, then hot.
Three quick strides and I'm behind her just as she reaches for Jade's door handle, her phone raised, ready to slide the door open just enough for a quick photo of the sleeping celebrity inside.
I catch her wrist before she can touch the handle, my grip firm but controlled. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
She startles violently, nearly dropping the phone as she whirls to face me. "I... I was just checking if Ms. Sinclair needed anything," she stammers, eyes wide with alarm and guilt.
"With your camera ready?" I keep my voice low but allow an edge of steel to creep in. "Interesting service technique."
Her face flushes deep red, visible even in the dim lighting. "It's not what it looks like."
"It looks like you were about to invade my client's privacy for a photo you could sell to the tabloids." I release her wrist but position myself between her and Jade's door. "How much do they pay for sleeping celebrity shots these days? Couple thousand? Enough to risk your job?"
She takes a step back, rubbing her wrist where I gripped it. "I wasn't going to sell it," she insists, though her eyes dart nervously down the corridor. "It was just for me, for my Instagram. Everyone does it."
"Not with Jade Sinclair they don't." I hold out my hand, palm up. "Phone. Now."
"You can't..."
"I can and I will. Your choice: hand over the phone so I can delete any photos you've already taken, or I wake the head flight attendant and your supervisor to explain why you're sneaking around first class with your camera at 3 AM."
For a moment, she looks like she might refuse or make a scene. Then, shoulders slumping in defeat, she places the phone in my hand.
I quickly check the camera roll, relieved to find no images of Jade among the selfies and tourist photos of Bali. "Consider this your only warning," I say, handing the phone back. "If I see you anywhere near this suite again during this flight, there will be consequences."
She nods, cheeks burning with humiliation, and hurries back toward the galley where the flight attendants gather between service rounds.
Once she's gone, I lean against the wall outside Jade's suite, adrenaline still coursing through my system.
This is exactly why celebrities hire security, why Jade needs protection even in supposedly secure environments like a first-class cabin.
The world feels entitled to pieces of her.
Her image, her privacy, her life. Without permission or consideration.
"Mateo?" A soft voice speaks my name, and I turn to find Jade's suite door now partially open, her face appearing in the gap. Hair tousled, eyes heavy-lidded but alert. "Everything okay? I heard voices."
"Just a flight attendant," I say, trying to keep my voice casual. "I sent her away. Sorry if we woke you."
"I wasn't sleeping. I was watching a movie on my iPad." She studies my face for a moment, too perceptive for her own good. "Tell me the whole story," she says simply. "What really happened?"
I hesitate, weighing whether to tell her. She's had enough stress already without adding this incident to her concerns. But something about the direct way she's looking at me makes dishonesty impossible.
"She had her phone out," I admit. "Was going to try and take pictures of you."