Chapter 6
I’ve dealt with diplomats who treated security protocols as optional suggestions.
I’ve protected CEOs who genuinely believed kidnapping was something that happened to other people.
I’ve worked with professional athletes who thought their physical prowess translated to threat assessment.
None of them tested my patience as thoroughly as Devyn Martin—and I’ve known her for less than an hour.
I walk slowly through the second-floor hallway, documenting security weaknesses while she follows several paces behind me. More correctly, she stalks behind me, her footsteps sharp and deliberate, with irritation radiating off her like heat off asphalt in August.
The house itself is beautiful. Expensive yet tasteful.
It’s the kind of place that gets featured in architectural magazines, with spreads titled “Celebrities at Home” or “Malibu Coastal Living.” The hardwood floors and custom fixtures alone probably cost more than my entire home.
Floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the ocean views like paintings, inviting the outside in, erasing the boundary between private and public.
It’s also a security nightmare. The house is a glass box sitting on a hillside, visible from multiple angles and accessible from as many approaches. Devyn Martin lives inside it like a display piece.
The two things aren’t mutually exclusive.
In fact, they’re often directly related, with an inverse correlation between aesthetic appeal and practical protection.
Large windows that flood rooms with natural light also provide sight-lines for observers.
Numerous entry points that create flow and openness also create vulnerabilities.
Landscaping designed for privacy provides concealment for intruders.
An electronic security system that’s decent but not exceptional, probably installed by the same contractor who did the home theater and the smart lighting.
I stop beside a hallway window, one overlooking the side garden, with its fountain and carefully arranged greenery. “How often is this open?”
“Sometimes.”
I glance over my shoulder. She’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, her expression daring me to challenge her. “Sometimes isn’t an answer, Devyn.”
She lifts her chin, a stubborn angle I’ve already learned to recognize. “It’s a very flexible answer.”
“It’s not.” I stare at her. She stares back, her hazel eyes defiant and lips set in a line that suggests she’s enjoying this conflict far more than she should be.
For someone who found flowers from her trash arranged on her kitchen island, she’s remarkably determined to fight me on absolutely everything.
“Do you want me to make assumptions? Because I can. I can assume this window is always open. I can assume you leave it unlocked. I can assume the security system is armed inconsistently, if at all. I can build an entire threat model based on those assumptions, and every protocol I recommend will reflect them.”
She shifts slightly, her bravado cracking just enough to show uncertainty beneath. “No.”
“Then answer the questions.”
She sighs dramatically, the kind of sigh normally reserved for sullen teenagers. “Occasionally,” she admits, the word dragged out, like it’s being pulled from her against her will. “When I want fresh air. When it’s nice outside. Occasionally.”
“We’ll need window sensors.”
“It already has sensors.”
“New sensors,” I insist, making my way down the hallway. “The existing sensors are of a basic grade, probably whatever came with the initial security installation.”
Behind me, I hear muttering. I don’t quite catch everything. Impossible. Ridiculous. Insufferable. It’s probably for the best that I don’t actually hear her. My job is keeping her safe, not making her like me.
At the door to the master suite, I pause at the threshold. “May I?”
She gestures with one hand, begrudgingly granting me permission.
The room itself is surprisingly personal, less staged than the rest of the house. The sheets on the king-sized bed are rumpled, and there is a pile of well-worn novels on her nightstand. I am left wondering how long it’s been since she had a good night’s sleep.
After crossing the room, I inspect the balcony doors.
Much like downstairs, the locks are inadequate—cheap contractor-grade, easily picked or forced.
The alarm contacts are entry-level as well, magnetic switches that any skilled intruder could bypass.
A dangerous combination, considering the balcony could be reached with a ladder or climbed from the garden with minimal effort.
When I explain that, she groans, pure frustration rattling from deep in her chest. “I spent eighteen million dollars on this place.”
“Congratulations.”
“I feel like there should be less criticism involved in that statement.” She points around the room, at the view and the space she clearly loves. “I feel like eighteen million dollars should have bought me some peace of mind.”
“Eighteen million dollars bought you excellent scenery,” I correct, turning from the balcony doors.
“It bought you square footage, natural light, and probably excellent resale value. It did not buy you security. Those are different products, sold by different people, with very different priorities.”
We head downstairs, and things only get worse. For her and my peace of mind. I stop beside the kitchen island, my hand resting on the marble where the vase sat. “How many household employees?”
“Seven.”
“Full-time?”
“Mostly. Some part-time. Sarah is full-time. There’s a housekeeper every other day, a gardener, a pool serviceman who comes twice a week, a personal trainer who—”
“Everyone gets re-vetted.” I nod, cutting off the list.
Her eyebrows shoot upward. “What?”
“Every employee. Background checks, reference verification, financial screening, and social media analysis. Everyone with access to this property, keys, and access codes gets verified by our team.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it, then opens it again, struggling with the words. “I don’t like that.”
“Good.”
“What?”
I lean against the island and cross my arms over my chest. “Security isn’t supposed to feel convenient.
It’s not supposed to be comfortable. It’s supposed to keep you alive.
And sometimes that means doing things you don’t like, accepting restrictions you’d rather ignore, and suspecting people you’d prefer to trust.”
She glares at me, and I can see the war happening behind her eyes, the battle between her desire for normalcy and her need for safety.
I continue, gentler but no less firm, “Every employee gets re-vetted. Starting today.”
Her jaw tightens, the muscle ticking. “They’ll hate that.”
“I don’t care.”
“That’s becoming a theme.”
“It should.” I hold her gaze, willing her to understand. “Your safety matters more than their feelings. More than your convenience or preferences. You wanted our protection; this is how we provide it.”
The rest of the team arrives shortly after midday, announced by Sarah’s voice drifting from the foyer.
Damon first, his assessment thorough and methodical, as always.
Then Jagger, his energy chaotic but his eye sharp, noticing things I missed, confirming things I suspected.
Within thirty minutes, every concern I identified has been independently confirmed, each vulnerability noted, and all flaws re-cataloged.
It’s professionally reassuring for me, but terrible for Devyn.
We gather in the living room, and she sits across from us.
Her posture is defensive and closed, her arms folded across her body and a scowl on her face as if she’s pre-upset.
She looks like she’s attending a meeting specifically designed to ruin her day.
Which is somewhat accurate, though our intentions aren’t malicious.
I glance at the notes typed on the tablet in my lap. “These are the immediate protocol changes.” Her eyes close, and she sucks in a deep breath like she’s bracing for impact. “First, as we discussed, every employee is being re-vetted, with background checks performed by our team.”
She lets out a soft, yet annoyed, sigh.
“Second, we’ll be implementing access logs for all vendors, deliveries, maintenance personnel, and contractors. Everyone will sign in and out, ensuring everyone is accounted for.”
A slightly louder sigh billows from her, accompanied by a shift in her posture.
“Third. No spontaneous outings.”
Her eyes snap open, the golden pools ablaze. “What?”
I speak over her interruption, keeping my voice level. “No unplanned public appearances. No schedule deviations. No last-minute location changes. Everything comes through us first, so that it can planned and scouted. We need to ensure every destination is secure before you arrive.”
She leans forward, her spine straight and fingers wrapping around the edge of the couch cushions. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not.”
“It absolutely is,” she huffs, abruptly rising to her feet and pacing between us. “I am not asking permission to leave my own house. I’m not reporting my movements to a security team like I’m on parole. I have a career. Obligations. I have a life that doesn’t stop because some—”
“Good. Glad we agree.”
She blinks at me in confusion, stopping mid-stride. “What?”
“You aren’t asking for our permission.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“This is how our protection works.” I stand as well, meeting her energy and refusing to let her attempt to dominate the space.
“Unpredictable targets are harder to protect. Every time you deviate from protocol, you create an opportunity for someone who’s watching, waiting, planning.
You want to do something, come to us first.”
“That’s just asking permission with fancy words. I’m not a child.”
“You’re kind of acting like one.”
Jagger is utterly fascinated with our exchange, his head swiveling back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match.
Devyn points at me, her finger trembling slightly. “Listen, I host people. I have friends over. I have dinner parties and movie nights and—”
“No unapproved guests.”
Her mouth falls open, genuine shock replacing anger. “No. I host people,” she repeats, as if I didn’t hear her the first time.
“After approval. After screening. After they’ve been cleared and the property has been secured.”
“You can’t deny me my friends.”
“I can.”
She glares, and I remain unmoved. Mostly because she’s wrong, but partly because she’s adorable when she’s angry.
“Any guest entering this property gets screened. ID verification, bag checks, and metal detection if necessary. It might be your home, but your safety comes with our rules and protocols.”
“This is insane.”
“This is the beginning.”
She flops back onto her couch and drops her head back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m not. We have a lot more to cover.”
“Oh my God.”
I continue reading from the extensive list of notes we compiled: additional cameras covering every angle of the property, twenty-four-hour security coverage, secured vehicle transportation only, advanced security protocols for public appearances, and emergency response contingencies.
She grows more annoyed with each item we discuss.
Or I dictate. By the time I finish, her expression mirrors a queen who has recently had her crown revoked.
“So, I hired you to turn my home into a prison,” she snarks.
“It’s not.”
“It sure feels like it.”
After retaking my seat, I lean forward, my forearms braced across my thighs, and settle my full attention on Devyn. “Do you understand why these measures are necessary?”
Her expression shifts slightly. While the frustration remains, I catch a glimpse of the reason we are here.
Fear. The kind of fear that has been keeping her up at night.
While she might be hiding it behind sarcasm and adorable little temper tantrums, deep down, she knows that this escalation doesn’t stop at flowers.
They were only a message; a promise of something much worse.
Devyn’s gaze drops briefly to her hands, then returns to mine. “Yes.” The answer is quiet and honest, stripped of the performative bravado she’s been maintaining since I arrived.
I nod, acknowledging the admission and respecting the vulnerability it has cost her. “Good. I want you to remember that as we move forward.”
She exhales, long and slow, her shoulders dropping slightly. “I still hate your rules.”
Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch.
I barely know this woman, yet already, I would’ve been shocked if she’d just rolled over.
This assignment is going to be exhausting.
I know it with absolute certainty. With how she challenges me and the way I can’t stop noticing things I shouldn’t about her, I can feel it in my bones.
The stalker will be the easy part of this assignment. Protecting Devyn Martin from herself is going to be a full-time job.