Chapter 2 Mack
TWO
MACK
I step closer, scanning the private hangar out of habit. Black SUV waiting, tinted windows, engine idling. Heartline Security's local team already swept it twice. Good. I don't trust anyone else's eyes but mine.
Indigo Lyric emerges from the jet, all long legs and effortless grace, like the runway followed her off the plane.
She's wearing oversized sunglasses, a cream trench coat cinched tight at the waist, and heels that click like gunfire on concrete.
Her dark hair spills over one shoulder in perfect waves.
The paparazzi are kept behind a barrier fifty yards out, but they're still shouting her name like it's sacred.
She spots me immediately. Her lips curve into that practiced, camera-ready smile, but her eyes say something else—annoyance, maybe amusement. "You must be the muscle," she says, voice smooth as silk and twice as expensive.
"Mack Hawthorne." I keep it short, professional. No handshake offered. "Let's move."
She arches a perfect brow. "No 'nice to meet you'? No 'welcome to Cupid City'?"
"Welcome to Cupid City," I deadpan. "Now get in the vehicle before someone decides to make you the next viral headline for the wrong reasons."
She rolls her eyes but complies, sliding into the back seat like it's a throne.
I take shotgun, nodding to the driver—local Heartline guy named King.
We pull out smoothly, merging into the ridiculous pink-and-red traffic that's already clogging the streets.
Heart-shaped balloons bob from lampposts.
Billboards scream Valentine Lingerie Showcase: Love in Every Curve. Even the stoplights flash pink.
I hate this place.
The drive to the hotel is quiet except for the soft click of Indigo scrolling her phone.
I watch the mirrors, the side streets, the vehicles around us.
Nothing stands out, but my gut's been humming since the briefing.
Some low-level stalker shit has been escalating—anonymous notes, gifts delivered to her agency, a few too many "accidental" run-ins with the same face in different cities.
Heartline flagged it as credible enough for 24/7 protection during her showcase run. Hence me.
We arrive at the Crescent Moon Tower, the penthouse level already secured.
I escort her through the private elevator, my hand hovering near the small of her back—not touching, just close enough to shove her behind me if needed.
She smells like expensive vanilla and something sharper, like citrus after a storm. It's distracting. I ignore it.
The doors open directly into the suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the glittering skyline, Cupid City's lights already winking like they're in on some cosmic joke.
Rose petals scattered on every surface. A massive heart-shaped arrangement on the coffee table.
And one king-sized bed dominating the master bedroom, draped in red silk and sprinkled with more petals.
Indigo stops short. "They really committed to the theme, didn't they?"
"Insurance photos," I mutter, already moving to check the perimeter. "Media's running a story that you're here with a mystery man. We sell the couple angle, kill the rumor before it starts. One bed sells better than two."
She laughs—low, throaty, and entirely too aware of how it lands. "So you're my fake boyfriend now? That's adorable."
"I'm your bodyguard," I correct, voice flat. "The fake part is for show. Don't get ideas."
"Oh, Mack." She shrugs off her coat, revealing a fitted black dress that hugs every curve like it was custom-made to torture me. "You’re not my type."
I don't respond. I finish the sweep—balcony clear, closets empty, bathroom secure. When I return to the living area, she's kicked off her heels and is standing barefoot by the window, staring out at the city like she owns it.
"Rules," I say, pulling out my phone to log the arrival. "You don't go anywhere without me. You don't open doors, windows, packages. You don't post locations in real time. You listen when I say move."
She turns, crossing her arms under her chest in a way that makes the dress pull tighter. "And if I don't?"
"Then I carry you. Over my shoulder if necessary. Your choice."
Her lips twitch. "Kinky."
I give her the look I reserve for rookies who think they're funny. "This isn't a game, Ms. Lyric. Someone's been leaving you gifts that aren't so sweet anymore."
She sobers slightly. "I know. The notes are... creative. But I'm not scared. I've dealt with worse."
"Famous last words." I pocket my phone. "Get settled. Showcase rehearsal's in three hours. I'll be right here."
She studies me for a long moment, like she's trying to decide if I'm human or just a walking wall of protocol. "You ever smile, Mack Hawthorne?"
"When the job's done."
She smirks. "Challenge accepted."
I don't rise to it. Instead, I take position by the door, arms crossed, eyes on the elevator panel.
The first package arrives at 1700 hours.
Room service knocks—standard protocol, but I make them wait while I check the cart through the peephole. Flowers. A massive bouquet of red roses wrapped in white ribbon, heart-shaped card tucked inside. Sender: Your Secret Admirer.
"Stay back," I order Indigo.
She ignores me, stepping closer out of curiosity. "It's probably just—"
I rip the card free first. Plain white stock, typed message: Can't wait to see you bloom on stage. Wear something red for me.
My skin prickles. Too generic to be threatening on its own, but the timing's off. I lift the bouquet carefully, turning it over.
Something shifts inside the stems.
"Down!" I bark, shoving her behind the couch as I drop the flowers.
The bouquet detonates—not a real explosion, thank Christ, but close enough. A muffled pop, then confetti erupts in a glittering cloud, mixed with tiny metal shards that ping off the marble floor like shrapnel. Harmless in scale, but the message is clear: someone got past hotel security.
Indigo's on the floor beside me, eyes wide, breathing fast. A few flecks of confetti cling to her hair like snow. For the first time since we met, she looks rattled.
I haul her up by the arm—gentle but firm—and scan her for injuries. None. Good.
"You okay?" I ask, voice rougher than intended.
She nods, swallowing. "Yeah. Just... surprised."
I don't let go of her arm yet. "That's why the rules exist."
She meets my eyes, something shifting behind the bravado. "Point taken, bodyguard."
I release her, already pulling out my phone to call King. "We're locking this place down. No one in or out without my say-so."
As I coordinate with the team, I catch her watching me—really watching. Not mocking this time. Assessing.
And damn it, I feel it too. That spark. The one that has no place in a professional assignment.
Seven days.
I can survive a week.
But as the city lights pulse outside and confetti settles like fallout around us, I have the sinking feeling Cupid City—and Indigo Lyric—are about to make that timeline a hell of a lot harder.