Chapter One #2
My gaze drifted to the bulletin board on my wall—photos of my students at various competitions. Harper's bright smile. Gabriela's determined expression. Addie's face, from back when she still had that spark in her eyes.
What if I was wrong? What if these incidents were connected, and I ignored it, and something happened to one of them?
I pressed my hand against my mouth, fighting down the surge of panic.
I didn't want to overreact. Didn't want to be that woman who saw threats everywhere, who couldn't handle her own problems, who had to run to Daddy every time something went wrong.
But what if I underreacted? What if my pride, my stubborn independence, my refusal to admit I might need help... what if that put my students at risk?
I couldn't live with that. I'd never forgive myself.
Even if there was only a tiny chance these incidents were connected—even if I felt ridiculous and paranoid and overdramatic—I had to be sure. I had to protect those girls.
I retrieved the note from yesterday's trash, smoothed it out beside the brick, and took photos of everything with my phone.
Then I dialed 911.
After I'd given my statement to the police and they'd promised to "look into it"—the same empty assurance they probably gave everyone—I called my father.
"Presley? Everything okay, princess?" His voice was warm, unsuspecting.
"Daddy." The word came out smaller than I wanted. "I need you."
DANIEL DANFORTH MADE the forty-five-minute drive from his downtown Austin office in thirty-two minutes.
He strode through Crown & Grace's entrance looking every inch the oilman who'd built an empire through sheer force of will. Six feet tall, silver hair, tailored suit, and a face like a gathering storm.
"Show me everything."
I handed him the note from yesterday and gestured to the brick, the shattered window, the glass still scattered across my studio floor. He studied each piece of evidence in silence, the muscle in his jaw jumping.
"When did this happen?"
"The brick came through about five forty-five. But Daddy, I'm not even sure they're connected. The note was probably just a prank, and this could've been an accident—"
"Princess." He set the note down carefully. "A brick doesn't accidentally go through a window with that much force. Someone threw this deliberately."
"But there's no note with it. No message. Maybe it was random vandalism—"
"Two incidents in two days?" He shook his head. "That's not coincidence."
My stomach sank. I'd hoped he'd tell me I was overreacting. That I was being paranoid. Instead, he was confirming my worst fear.
"Pack your things," he said. "You're coming straight home to Westlake Hills, and closing this place until this is resolved."
"What? No." I straightened, arms crossing defensively. "I can't close. The Texas Star Pageant is next weekend."
"Princess—"
"My students are depending on me, Daddy.
Addison, Harper, all of them have been preparing for months.
Parents have paid thousands for coaching, dresses, talent training.
" My voice rose. "This is my life's work.
I'm building strong young women, helping them become tomorrow's leaders.
They're counting on me. Don't you think that's important? "
"Someone put a brick through your window—"
"Someone might have put a brick through my window.
We don't know for sure they're connected.
" I stepped closer, desperate for him to understand.
"If I close now and word gets out about why, parents will panic.
They'll pull their daughters permanently.
My business will be destroyed. Everything I've built will be gone.
I won't abandon those girls when they need me most."
My father's expression softened. He'd never been able to say no when I dug in my heels.
Not when I was six and insisted on wearing that ridiculous feathered outfit for my first pageant.
Not when I was eighteen and chose to stay in Texas instead of moving to New York for modeling opportunities. Not now.
He sighed. "Fine. But I'm calling Gray Calhoun."
"Who?"
"Old friend. We go way back—served on some boards together years ago. He runs Lone Star Security now." My father was already pulling out his phone. "He'll assign someone to protect you."
"I don't need a bodyguard. This could all be coincidence. What if I'm overreacting?"
"Do you really believe that?" His gaze locked on mine.
I opened my mouth to say yes. To insist I did. But the words wouldn't come.
"I don't know," I whispered finally. "Maybe? Probably not? I just... I don't want to make a big deal out of nothing."
"Better to be cautious and wrong than careless and sorry." His voice gentled. "What if these incidents are connected? What if whoever did this knows where you live? What if this escalates?"
The fear I'd been holding at bay all evening crashed over me. "But what will I tell everyone? How do I explain a bodyguard following me everywhere? If parents find out I'm being threatened—even if I'm not sure I am—they'll panic. They'll pull their daughters anyway."
My father waved his hand dismissively, already dialing. "Tell everyone he's your boyfriend. Visiting from out of town or something. You two can figure out the cover story details—Gray's people are professionals at this sort of thing."
He turned away before I could protest further.
"Hello, Gray? Dan Danforth! Haven't talked in years, buddy, but I need a favor. My daughter's gotten herself into a situation..."
I stood in my destroyed studio, glass crunching under my heels, and tried to process what had just happened.
A bodyguard. Posing as my boyfriend. Starting tonight.
Because I couldn't be sure. Because what if I was wrong? Because I'd rather seem paranoid than risk my students' safety.
My father finished his call, squeezed my shoulder. "Gray's sending his best operative. Rhodes Foster—former Marine, been with LSS for four years. He'll be at your house by eight tonight."
"Tonight? But—"
"Let me call the emergency glass repair service. Even if they can't do the permanent fix tonight, they can at least get this boarded up until tomorrow morning." He was already dialing. "Then I'm following you home and waiting with you until Rhodes arrives."
My father spoke to the glass company, explained the situation, got confirmation they'd send someone within the hour. We sat in my office—away from the destroyed window—while we waited.
The repair crew arrived twenty minutes later. Two men with plywood and tools who had the window secured in under thirty minutes.
"We'll be back first thing tomorrow morning—seven AM—to replace the glass," the crew chief told me. "Whole job should take about forty-five minutes. You'll be good to go before you open for business."
"Thank you," I managed.
By the time we finished, it was nearly seven o'clock. My father insisted on picking up barbecue from his favorite place on the way back to my house—"You need to eat, princess"—so we sat at my kitchen table with brisket and sides, making awkward small talk while we waited for Rhodes to arrive.
The three-block drive home—my father following in his Mercedes—had felt surreal. Now, sitting in my kitchen eating dinner like this was normal, like my studio window hadn't just been destroyed, felt even stranger.
"You'll be okay," my father said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "Gray's people are the best. And if this turns out to be nothing? Then you'll have wasted a week or two of someone's time. Better than the alternative."
At eight o'clock sharp, the doorbell rang.
My father answered it. He stepped back to let Rhodes enter. I suddenly saw my carefully decorated living room through a stranger's eyes—probably too feminine, too fussy for someone who'd spent years in the Marines.
The man who filled my doorway was tall and powerfully built—dark jeans and a button-down that stretched across broad shoulders.
Dark brown hair cut short, blue-gray eyes that registered everything in a single sweep—my father, me hovering behind him, the interior visible past us.
A scar cut through his left eyebrow, another along his jawline.
Not pretty-boy handsome. Rugged, weathered, ready.
Heat flooded through me before I could stop it.
"You must be Rhodes. Dan Danforth." My father extended his hand.
"Mr. Danforth. Good to meet you." Rhodes's voice was deep and steady as they shook. "This is my daughter, Presley."
His gaze shifted to me. "Boss briefed me on the situation. I'm sorry you're going through this."
"Presley," I managed. "Just Presley."
My father clapped Rhodes on the shoulder. "I'll leave you two to work out the details. Gray said you're the best he's got, and that's good enough for me." He turned to me, kissed my forehead. "Call me if you need anything. I mean it."
After my father left, the house felt suddenly smaller. Rhodes stood in my living room, taking in my white furniture, soft colors, the throw pillows and framed artwork I'd chosen with such care.
"Can I get you something?" I gestured toward the kitchen. "Coffee? Water?"
"Coffee would be good. Thank you."
I led him to my kitchen, grateful for something to do with my hands. He settled into one of my chairs with surprising care—like he was conscious of taking up space—and pulled a small notepad from his pocket.
"Gray briefed me on speaker on the drive over," he said. "But I'd like to hear everything from your perspective. Start wherever feels right."
So I told him. The note Monday evening that I'd dismissed as a prank.
Working Tuesday, trying to convince myself it was nothing.
The brick crashing through my window at five forty-five.
Going outside to look for whoever threw it and finding no one.
My uncertainty about whether the incidents were even connected.
My fear that I might be overreacting. My greater fear that I might be underreacting.