Off-Limits Bodyguard

1. Chapter 1 （Olivia）

The truth is right there, dancing just beyond my grasp.

I can feel it in my bones as I scroll through another batch of internal corporate emails, my eyes burning from staring at the screen for the past six hours.

But I'm close—so close I can almost taste it.

The kind of story that makes careers, that changes lives. That gets people killed.

I shouldn't have thought that last part.

My fingers pause over the keyboard as another document loads, and my heart nearly stops. There it is. The smoking gun I've been searching for these past three months: a series of encrypted messages between Marcus Randall and the board of directors, discussing the systematic cover-up of?—

A shadow falls across my desk.

My head snaps up, but it's just Cassandra, bearing two cups of coffee and her signature knowing smile. "You look like hell, Liv."

"Thanks for the compliment." I grab the coffee she offers, inhaling the rich aroma like it's oxygen. "I've been going through these records since four AM."

"Normal people sleep at four AM." She perches on the edge of my desk, her bright yellow dress a stark contrast to the grays and blacks of the newsroom. "They also eat. When's the last time you had actual food?"

I wave her off, my attention already back on the screen. "I'll eat when I'm dead."

"That might be sooner than you think if you keep this up." Her voice carries an edge of worry that I choose to ignore.

The office bustles around us, a familiar symphony of clicking keyboards, ringing phones, and muttered curses.

But I barely notice any of it. My world has narrowed to these documents, to the thread of corruption I'm slowly unraveling.

Each new piece of evidence makes my pulse race faster, my determination grow stronger.

I download the encrypted messages to my secure drive and grab my jacket. "I need to verify something. Meet me for drinks later?"

Cassandra rolls her eyes. "Let me guess—you're going downtown again?"

"Just following a lead." I shoulder my bag, already mentally mapping out my route. "The usual place at eight?"

"Make it seven. And Liv?" She catches my arm as I turn to leave. "Be careful, okay? This story you're chasing... I've never seen you this intense about anything."

I flash her my most reassuring smile, the one I've perfected over years of brushing off concerns. "I'm always careful."

It's not exactly a lie. I am careful—careful about my sources, careful about my facts, careful about protecting my story. The fact that I might not be quite as careful about my own safety... well, that's a different matter entirely.

The September air hits my face as I step out onto the busy street, crisp and charged with possibility. I check my phone's GPS and head toward the courthouse, my mind racing with possibilities. If I can cross-reference these messages with the public records...

That's when I feel it. A prickle at the back of my neck, the weight of unseen eyes. I've been a journalist long enough to trust my instincts, and right now, they're screaming at me that something isn't right.

I pick up my pace, weaving through the lunch crowd, and catch a glimpse in a store window's reflection—a tall figure in black, moving with purpose, matching my every turn.

My heart pounds against my ribs, but I force myself to stay calm. Rule number one of being followed: don't let them know you've made them. I clutch my bag closer, feeling the reassuring weight of my laptop, of the evidence I've spent months gathering.

I just need to make it back to the office. Just need to?—

The figure is getting closer.

I duck into a coffee shop, pretending to study the menu while my mind races through options.

The figure passes by the window—male, broad-shouldered, wearing a black baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

My hands tremble as I pull out my phone, but I force them steady.

Never show fear. That's rule number two.

The barista gives me an expectant look. I order a latte I don't want and position myself near the back exit. Three minutes. That's all I need.

My phone buzzes with Jackson's text: Where are you with the Randall story?

I ignore it. Can't think about deadlines when my pulse is hammering against my ribs and cold sweat trickles down my spine. Two minutes left. The latte burns my tongue, pain sharpening my focus.

The man in the black coat moves.

I bolt through the back door, boots slapping against wet pavement. His shout confirms my worst fear—he's spotted me.

I twist through the maze of downtown alleys, grateful for all the times I've walked these streets chasing down stories. Left, right, another right. The footsteps echo closer. He's faster than me, but I know these paths better.

A chain-link fence appears like a gift. Without breaking stride, I launch myself at it, fingers gripping the cold metal links. My bag slams against my side as I climb, the laptop feeling heavier than secrets. Below me, heavy footsteps approach.

His hand swipes at my ankle as I drop to the other side.

Landing hard, I stumble but keep moving. My lungs burn. My legs scream for mercy. But stopping isn't an option.

I burst out onto Market Street, nearly colliding with a tour group. Perfect. I dive into the crowd, letting their confused voices and bodies swallow me. Twenty seconds later, I risk a glance back.

He's gone.

My legs are shaking so badly I have to lean against a wall. I pull out my phone with trembling fingers and call a rideshare—no way am I walking back to the office. As I wait, I try to slow my breathing, to look normal. Just another young professional on her lunch break. Nothing to see here.

The ride back to the newspaper offices feels endless. I keep checking the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see a black car following us. But the streets are clear, filled with nothing but normal midday traffic.

It isn't until I'm standing in front of Jackson's office that the full weight of what just happened hits me. Someone was willing to chase me through downtown in broad daylight. Whatever I've stumbled onto, it's bigger than I thought.

I knock on Jackson's door, trying to compose myself. My hair is a mess, my clothes are dirty from the fence, and I probably look as rattled as I feel. But none of that matters. What matters is the evidence secured on my laptop and the story that could blow this whole thing wide open.

Jackson takes one look at me and his expression darkens. "Jesus, Olivia. What happened to you?"

I slide into the chair across from his desk, forcing a smile. "Would you believe me if I said I took up parkour?"

"Cut the crap." He leans forward, his face etched with concern. "You're investigating Randall Industries, aren't you? Even after I specifically told you to drop it?"

"Jackson, you don't understand. I found something?—"

"No." He holds up a hand, stopping me. "You don't understand. This isn't a game, Olivia. These people... they've got reach. Real reach."

I pull out my laptop, my fingers still trembling with adrenaline and excitement. "Just look at what I found. Please."

He sighs, that deep, weary sound I've come to recognize as his surrender. But before I can open the files, his next words stop me cold.

"I'm assigning you a bodyguard."

"Like hell you are." The words burst out before I can stop them. "I don't need?—"

"This isn't a discussion." His voice carries that editor-in-chief finality I usually respect. Usually. "Either you accept protection, or I pull you off the story completely."

"You can't do that. This is my story, my investigation!"

"I can and I will." He softens his tone. "Olivia, you're the best investigative reporter I've got. But you're no good to anyone if you're dead."

I open my mouth to argue further, but my phone buzzes. Unknown number. The text message makes my blood run cold:

Back off now, or the next time we won't just chase you.

My hands shake so badly I almost drop the phone. Jackson must see something in my face because he's suddenly beside me, reading over my shoulder. The message sits there, black words against white background, somehow more threatening than the man who chased me through the streets.

"That's it." Jackson's voice is steel. "I'm calling him now."

"Calling who?" I hate how my voice trembles. I'm Olivia Blackwood. I don't tremble. I don't shake. I chase stories and uncover truths and I do not let threats stop me.

But God, I'm scared.

Jackson is already on the phone, turned away from me, speaking in low urgent tones.

I try to focus on my breathing, on the familiar comfort of my office visible through his door's window.

My desk with its organized chaos. The photo of Mom and Dad at my graduation.

The potted plant Cassandra gave me that somehow hasn't died yet.

Normal things. Safe things.

The text message glows like a curse.

"He'll be here in twenty minutes," Jackson says, ending his call. "One of the best in the business. Ex-military. He's worked with us before."

"I don't need?—"

"Olivia." Jackson sits on the edge of his desk, closer to me than he's ever been in the five years I've worked here. "You're not just my best reporter. You're like a daughter to me. Please. Just this once, let someone help you."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Jackson has never been emotional, never played the father figure card. That he's doing it now...

"Twenty minutes?" I manage to ask.

He nods. "His name is Noah Harrington."

"Fine." I stand up, needing to move, to do something. "But I'm not stopping the investigation. If anything, this proves I'm onto something big."

"I know better than to try to stop you." Jackson's smile is grim. "Just... be careful with this one. Something feels different."

I head back to my desk on shaky legs, aware of concerned glances from my colleagues. News travels fast in a newsroom. By now, everyone probably knows about my impromptu parkour session through downtown.

Cassandra is waiting at my desk, her usual smile replaced with worry. "Heard you had some excitement."

"That's one word for it." I sink into my chair, the adrenaline crash hitting me hard. "Rain check on drinks? Apparently, I have a meeting with my new babysitter."

"Bodyguard," she corrects. "And good. Maybe he'll be hot."

I roll my eyes, some of the tension easing. Trust Cassandra to think about that. "Yes, because that's exactly what I need right now. A romance to complicate my life even further."

My phone buzzes again. For a moment, fear freezes me, but it's just another email notification. I force myself to check it anyway.

The subject line reads: "What we do to nosy reporters."

The attachment is a photo of me, taken less than an hour ago, climbing that chain-link fence. The angle is all wrong—it wasn't taken by the man chasing me. Someone else was watching.

I close the email with numb fingers, my earlier bravado evaporating. The office suddenly feels too exposed, with its wall of windows looking out over the city. Anyone could be watching right now.

For the first time in my career, I wonder if I've finally dug too deep, pulled on a thread better left alone. But it's too late now. Whatever I've stumbled into, whoever is behind this, they're not going to stop.

And neither am I.

The elevator dings. Through the glass walls, I watch a man step out onto our floor. Tall, broad-shouldered, radiating the kind of quiet intensity that makes people instinctively step out of his way.

He's tall, dangerous, and far too attractive for someone carrying that many weapons. His eyes scan the room with military precision before landing on me.

"Ms. Blackwood." His voice hits me low in my stomach - all gravel and danger wrapped in a tailored suit that does nothing to hide his military build. "I'm Noah Harrington. Your new security detail."

My pulse kicks up, but not from fear this time. "I don't need protection."

"I don't need protection."

"Evidence suggests otherwise." He moves closer, and suddenly my office feels too small, too warm. His eyes scan me for injuries with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. "That chase through downtown? Amateur hour compared to what's coming."

"I can handle myself."

"So I saw." The ghost of a smile touches his lips, and something electric sparks between us. "Nice work with the fence. Though next time, try not to leave blood evidence behind."

I glance down at my scraped palms, very aware of how close he's standing. How his presence seems to swallow all the oxygen in the room.

"There won't be a next time," Jackson cuts in. "Because you're not going anywhere without Noah."

Great. Stuck with six feet of overprotective muscle who looks at me like he can read every thought in my head.

This is going to be a problem.