Chapter 3
LUC
Simone’s still asleep when I finish my morning workout. I kept it to the property—perimeter circuits, bodyweight exercises on the lawn—never losing sight of the guest house.
I check the security feeds from my phone while I cool down on the guest house porch.
Perimeter clear, motion sensors quiet, all access points secured.
The main house shows Remy moving through the kitchen, probably making coffee before Isabella wakes up.
Normal morning routine, except for the high-value asset sleeping upstairs who's going to fight me on every protocol I've put in place.
Yesterday proved that much. Simone LaCroix doesn't take orders well, doesn't trust easily, and sure as hell doesn't surrender control without a fight.
Which would be fine in a club scene where she's performing submission for an audience of one.
But this isn't a scene. This is a protection detail, and her inability to follow commands could get her killed.
I head inside, shower, dress. By the time I'm pouring coffee in the kitchen, I hear movement upstairs. Water running. The guest room door opening.
She appears at the top of the stairs wearing silk pajamas. Her honey-blonde hair is loose around her shoulders, face free of makeup, looking younger and more vulnerable than the polished CEO who walked in yesterday afternoon.
"Good morning." She starts down the stairs.
"Stop."
She freezes mid-step, one hand on the railing. "Excuse me?"
"You don't come downstairs until I clear you to." I set my coffee down. "Security protocol. Wait until I verify the space is secure."
Her jaw tightens. "This is ridiculous. It's just the kitchen."
"Windows. Door. Perimeter exposure." I don't move. "You follow my commands or you leave. We established this yesterday."
She stands there for a long moment. Her jaw works. Her eyes narrow slightly as she weighs whether to push back. Smart enough to recognize she signed a contract giving me operational authority. Too stubborn to accept it without testing the boundaries first.
"May I come downstairs?" The words come out tight, in a controlled corporate voice trying to mask frustration.
"Yes."
She descends the rest of the way, moving past me toward the coffee pot with practiced grace. Pours herself a cup, adds cream, turns to face me with that boardroom posture that says she's in charge of every room she enters.
"We need to discuss the schedule." She pulls out her phone. "I have three video conferences this morning, a contract review this afternoon, and a dinner meeting with my board chair tonight that I cannot miss."
"Video conferences are fine. Contract review depends on what it involves. Dinner meeting is cancelled."
"I'm not cancelling—"
"You're not leaving this property until I've assessed the threat and implemented additional security measures." I pick up my coffee again. "That takes time. You want to expedite the process, stop arguing and start following commands."
Her fingers tighten around her phone. "How long are we talking about?"
"At least a few days before I even consider off-property movement. Longer if the threat escalates."
"That's completely unacceptable." She sets down her coffee with enough force to slosh liquid onto the counter. "I have a company to run. I can't just disappear without explanation."
"Then explain it." I lean against the counter. "Security concern. Working remotely. Taking meetings via video conference. No one needs details at this point. You don't owe anyone an explanation beyond what serves your safety."
"Board members will want to know what kind of security concern."
"Corporate espionage. Industrial sabotage. Personal threat assessment." I shrug. "Pick whatever story plays best. But the dinner meeting with your board chair is cancelled. You're staying on this property until I clear you for external movement."
She stares at me like I've just told her the sun rises in the west. Like the concept of someone else making decisions about her schedule is fundamentally incomprehensible.
"I need my laptop." The words come out clipped. "And access to the secure server. And my assistant needs to be able to reach me without going through your operatives first."
"Laptop's fine. Secure server access can be configured through the security system we installed yesterday—I'll have one of my techs handle the setup this morning. Your assistant can reach you directly. All communications are monitored in real-time for threat assessment."
"Everything I do is monitored?"
"Everything." I finish my coffee, set the cup in the sink. "Emails, calls, texts, calendar updates, document access. Real-time feed to my system. Non-negotiable."
Her face flushes. "That's a massive invasion of privacy."
"That's comprehensive threat assessment." I move closer. Her shoulders draw back as she tries to maintain that professional distance. "Someone's been watching you for weeks. Knows your patterns, habits, vulnerabilities. I need to know more than they do. No privacy until the threat's neutralized."
"This is insane." But the protest lacks conviction this time. She knows I'm right, even if she hates admitting it.
"This is reality." I step back, giving her space to process. "You have half an hour to handle your morning routine and prep for your video conferences. Then we're establishing ground rules."
"What kind of ground rules?"
"The kind that keep you alive." I head toward my room. "Half an hour, Simone. Don't make me come looking for you."
I leave her standing in the kitchen, frustration and fear warring across her face. She'll push back—it's in her nature to test boundaries and negotiate terms. But eventually she'll understand that this isn't negotiable. My authority keeps her breathing. Her submission keeps her safe.
And somewhere in the process of teaching her the difference between performing surrender and actually surrendering control, maybe she'll learn to trust me enough to let me do my job.
Half an hour later, I find her in the upstairs workspace. She's dressed now—dark slacks, silk blouse, hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. Full armor in place, ready for video conferences with executives who have no idea their CEO is operating under protective custody.
"Ground rules." I stop in the doorway. "You don't leave this guest house without my explicit permission.
You don't open windows or doors without checking with me first. You don't communicate with anyone outside your immediate business team without running it through me.
And you follow every command I give you without hesitation or argument. "
"Those aren't ground rules." She closes her laptop. "Those are prison terms."
"Those are the protocols that keep stalking victims alive when threats escalate to physical action." I cross my arms. "If you stay, you follow my protocols."
"I didn't specifically choose you." She stands, moves around the desk with that controlled grace that's all practiced boardroom presence.
"Margot recommended Rapier when I went to her scared.
I understand your brother was a top operative at Cerberus before he left to start this—" She waves a hand dismissively.
"Remy left Cerberus because New Orleans is home.
" I keep my voice level. "The Pascals have been here for generations.
This is our city. Our territory. Nobody knows it better, and nobody has deeper connections when it matters.
You're being stalked in New Orleans by someone who knows this city.
You want the best protection here? That's us. "
Her mouth tightens. She's not used to being corrected.
"I understand operational authority. What I don't understand is why you're treating me like I'm incompetent."
"You're an asset under threat with zero training. Yesterday you resisted protocols. Questioned security. Prioritized schedule over safety. That gets people killed."
She flinches, the words landing harder than I intended. But she needs to understand the stakes.
"I know." But her voice has lost some of its edge. "I just don't want to live in fear."
"Then trust me to handle the fear for you." I straighten. "You focus on running your company. I focus on keeping you alive. That's the arrangement."
She looks at me for a long moment. Her professional mask slips just enough to show the woman underneath—scared, trying not to show it.
"Fine." The word comes out quiet. "What do you need from me?"
"Complete compliance with security protocols. No arguments, no negotiations, no testing boundaries." I move closer. "And when I give you a command, you follow it immediately. Not after you've debated whether it makes sense. Not after you've weighed the inconvenience. Immediately."
"That's asking for a lot of trust."
"That's asking for the bare minimum required to keep you breathing.
" I stop just inside her personal space.
"You want to know the difference between performing submission and actually surrendering control?
This is it. Following commands even when you don't understand the reasoning.
Trusting my judgment instead of negotiating terms."
Her breathing changes—shallow, quick. The same response I saw yesterday when I stepped into her space in the conference room—her body recognizing dominance even when her mind fights it.
"I'll try." The admission costs her something. "But I can't promise I won't push back sometimes."
"You'll push back. That's who you are. But you're going to learn that pushing back has consequences. And eventually you're going to learn that my authority isn't a threat to your control. It's the foundation that lets you surrender it safely."
I step back, putting distance between us before the heat building in the narrow space ignites into something neither of us is ready for. Not yet. Not when she's still performing instead of actually submitting.