Operation: Bombshell (Cupid City Security #1)

Chapter 1 Indigo

ONE

INDIGO

The steam curls up from my chamomile tea like little ghosts in the late afternoon light.

I cup the mug in both hands, letting the warmth seep into my palms as I sit cross-legged on the cream velvet sofa in my living room.

The house is quiet except for the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the hall and the occasional sigh of the AC kicking on.

Outside, the Saint Pierce sun is dipping low, painting the palms gold through the sheer curtains.

I take a slow sip, eyes half-closed. The tea tastes like honey and calm—exactly what I need right now.

In three days, I'll be on a plane to Cupid City for the Lingerie Showcase.

Not just walking; headlining. The theme is "Love in Every Curve," all silk and shadows, lace that looks like midnight secrets.

I've been practicing my turns in the mirror for weeks, perfecting that slow, liquid glide that makes photographers lose their minds.

My agent says this could be the one that catapults me from "rising star" to household name. I believe her. Mostly.

I let my mind drift to the runway. The lights will be low, crimson and violet, pulsing like a heartbeat.

I'll step out in that black corset with the garnet beads, the one that cinches my waist until breathing feels like a performance.

The music will swell—something deep and electronic—and I'll feel the eyes of the entire front row on me.

Hungry. Appreciative. A little dangerous.

I love that part. The power in being looked at and knowing exactly how to give them more without giving anything away.

A smile tugs at my lips. I set the mug on the glass coffee table and stretch my arms overhead, feeling the pull in my shoulders from yesterday's Pilates.

Everything is lined up. Flight's booked, show fitting tomorrow morning, press junket the day after.

I just need to stay loose, stay centered. No drama. No distractions.

That's when I hear it.

A soft click from the back of the house. Like a door latch releasing.

My body freezes before my brain catches up. The sound is wrong. Too deliberate. The house is supposed to be locked—deadbolt, chain, alarm armed. I always set it when I'm home alone.

Then the alarm shrieks.

It's deafening, a piercing wail that drills straight into my skull. Red lights flash from the panel in the foyer. Motion detected. Rear entry.

My heart slams against my ribs. I snatch my phone from the cushion beside me, fingers shaking as I swipe to the emergency dial. The alarm keeps screaming as my breathing kicks up.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Someone's in my house," I whisper-shout over the noise. "The alarm just went off. I'm alone. Please hurry."

The operator is calm, asking for my address, asking if I can see the intruder. I can't. I'm still on the sofa, legs tucked under me like that'll make me invisible. I edge toward the hallway, peering around the corner. Nothing. Just shadows stretching long across the hardwood.

"Stay on the line," she says. "Officers are en route. ETA five minutes."

Five minutes feels like forever.

I back into the kitchen, putting the island between me and the hall. My pulse is thunder in my ears. Then I see it—on the counter, right next to my fruit bowl. A folded piece of paper that wasn't there before.

White. Ordinary. My name scrawled on the front in black marker: Indigo.

My stomach drops.

I don't touch it at first. I just stare, like it might bite. The alarm is still blaring, but the world narrows to that square of paper. Finally, I unfold it with trembling fingers.

One line, written in neat script letters:

I'm always watching.

No signature. No threat beyond the words themselves. But they land like ice water down my spine.

Sirens wail in the distance. Real ones this time.

The police arrive in a storm of lights and boots.

Two officers sweep the house while I wait on the front porch, arms wrapped around myself even though it's eighty degrees.

They find the back door jimmied—clean, professional.

No prints on the handle. The intruder was in and out fast. They bag the note as evidence, take my statement, promise to increase patrols.

Standard procedure, they say. Probably just a creep who saw my face in a magazine.

I nod like I believe them.

When they're gone, the house feels too big, too quiet again. I reset the alarm, double-check every lock, then call Etta.

My manager picks up on the first ring. "Indi? You okay? You sound—"

"Someone broke in." The words tumble out. "They left a note. 'I'm always watching.' Police just left."

Silence. Then Etta's voice sharpens. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Where are you now?"

"Home. Living room."

"Stay put. I'm coming over."

She arrives twenty minutes later in her silver Audi, heels clicking like gunfire on the driveway.

Etta's in her late forties, sharp cheekbones, sharper instincts.

She's been with me since I was nineteen, back when I was just another tall girl with good bone structure.

She storms in, pulls me into a quick, fierce hug, then holds me at arm's length to scan for damage.

"You look pale," she says.

"I feel pale."

She makes tea while I sit on the sofa again. The note is already with the cops, but I describe it word for word. Etta listens without interrupting, stirring sugar into her cup like she's plotting.

"This isn't random," she says finally. "Not with the Showcase coming up."

"I know."

She sets her mug down hard enough to clink. "You can't stay alone. Not until we figure this out."

"Well..." I don’t finish my sentence, because well, I am alone. Have been since Derek and I broke up.

"Then we get security. Professional. Discreet."

I open my mouth to argue, but the protest dies when I remember the note. The way the house felt violated even after the police left.

Etta doesn't wait for permission. She's already on her phone, scrolling contacts. "I know someone in Cupid City. Heartline Security. Run by Cassian Rhodes. Ex-military, high-end clientele. Models, actors, politicians. They specialize in close protection without turning you into a circus."

"Cassian Rhodes?" The name sounds like a cologne ad.

"He's good. Very good. I used him for that actress last year—the one with the stalker ex. No incidents. No drama. He’s got a whole team of men. Capable men. He’ll have someone meet us at the airport when you land, shadow you through the Showcase, stay close until we know this creep's not escalating. "

I rub my temples. "Etta, I don't want a babysitter. I can handle—"

"You can handle a lot. You can't handle someone who triggers your alarm and leaves creepy love notes on your counter." She softens her tone. "This is precautionary. You focus on the runway. Let security handle the shadows."

I stare at my cooling tea. Part of me wants to fight—I'm Indigo Lyric, I walk in six-inch heels under spotlights, I don't need protecting. But another part remembers the click of that latch. The way the air changed when someone else was in my space.

"Fine," I mutter. "But if he's some meathead who hovers, I'm firing him myself."

Etta smiles, small and victorious. "He won’t be a meathead. You'll see."

She texts Rhodes right there, arranging everything. Within minutes, her phone pings with confirmation. Someone named Mack Hawthorne will be at Cupid City International when my flight lands. Tall, dark-haired, former special forces. References impeccable. Discretion guaranteed.

I lean back against the cushions, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline's crashing, leaving me hollow. Etta stays another hour, making sure I'm locked in, alarm set, spare key in her purse. She hugs me again before she leaves.

"Try to sleep," she says at the door. "You've got your shoe fitting in the morning."

I nod as I watch her taillights disappear down the street.

Alone again, I wander to the bedroom, flip on every light. I check the windows, the closet, under the bed like a child afraid of monsters. Then I crawl under the covers, phone clutched in my hand.

The note replays in my head. I'm always watching.

I pull the duvet higher. My pulse is still too fast.

I'm not sure if I'm angry or terrified. Maybe both.

But deep down, in the part I don't like admitting exists, there's a tiny, traitorous flicker of relief. Someone will be watching back. Someone trained. Someone who knows how to stop this before it gets worse.

Someone paid to protect me. I just hope he doesn’t get in my way of my breakout moment. This showcase is a big deal, and I won’t let anyone keep me from achieving my dream.