Chapter Forty
Grant
“What are you thinking about?” she asked suddenly.
“How nice a glass of wine would be right now,” I admitted easily.
“Oh,” she replied.
I could tell from her tone that she wanted to press but wasn’t sure whether her inquiry would be well received.
“It’s not too bad—the cravings,” I volunteered.
“Be honest. On a scale of one to ten, how severe are they?”
“A seven,” I answered promptly.
“Jesus,” she whispered.
I ran a hand down her waist to her hip and squeezed gently.
“I miss how alcohol made me feel. It felt like the world finally shut up for a minute and I could breathe. There’s still a part of me that craves the numbness, but I can’t be off my game—not now with that psycho on the loose.”
She hummed an acknowledgment and tugged on a few hairs on my knee that earned her a slap on the ass. She hissed through her teeth, and I smiled in satisfaction.
“When do we interview the security companies?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“Will we have time before Kieran’s party?”
“I convinced him to move the party to the evening.”
She snorted and tightened her arm around me.
“I’m sure that blew over well.”
“Not really. There was a whole bunch of bitching and moaning about how his theme was something or another garden party.”
“The Gilded Grove,” my lovely wife reminded me.
“Fucking ridiculous,” I muttered. “He went on a twenty-minute rant about how he couldn’t host a rooftop garden party at 5:00 in the evening.
He claimed he had to rework the entire menu, lighting, and lawn chair positioning, and didn’t shut up until Dad walked in, gave him his credit card, and left.
Kieran disappeared like a fucking ghost after that. ”
“Mom and Dad are enablers,” Kiyah commented.
“Yeah, and you’re one of the biggest recipients.”
“Not too much on me, now. I’m working on it through intensive therapy.”
“You are, darling. I’m proud of you,” I said earnestly, stroking her cheek with a knuckle.
“Thanks. I’m proud of you, too,” she whispered.
Slowly, I eased the distance between us, getting caught up in her enchanting eyes, soft whispers, and gentle smile.
Our lips met, and my craving for alcohol lessened with each nibble and tongue stroke.
I could’ve been overthinking—most likely overthinking—and that was what led to me pulling away.
Because in the moment, I felt I was trading one addiction for another.
* * *
I was reviewing briefs on the couch when Kiyah floated in with a tray of refreshments. I did a double-take at her attire. She wore caramel trousers with a tucked-in, sleeveless black blouse, and paired her ensemble with gold jewelry and black heels. I realized her facial piercings were missing.
“Who are you, and what have you done with my wife?” I teased.
“She’s still here. She’s just growing up a little,” she replied, setting the tray on the coffee table. “What is that look for?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips.
“What look? I’m not making a look.”
“You frowned.”
“I’m not frowning. I’m thinking, there’s a difference.”
“Then what are you thinking about?” she pressed.
“I’m wondering if this is just a phase or if I will have to take my vehicles to the shop again for oil changes and tune-ups.”
Kiyah snorted.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“Only if you’ll watch.”
She perked up, and her burgundy lips curled into a smile.
“That’s not a bad idea,” she agreed.
“Tonight?”
“I’ll pencil you—”
My brow furrowed when she swayed slightly and pressed her fingers to her temple.
“Baby, are you alright?” I asked, tossing the documents aside to tend to her.
“Mmm. I don’t know. I got hit with a migraine out of nowhere.”
“Sit down,” I instructed softly, leading her to the couch by her elbow.
Once seated, I poured her a glass of water and left to retrieve pain meds and sunglasses.
Kiyah suffered from stress-induced migraines when we were younger, resulting in her being bedridden in her room with blackout curtains—sometimes for days.
I returned, finding her clutching the water glass with her head resting against the back of the couch.
“Here. Take these,” I said, dropping the pills into her palm.
“Thanks.”
She swallowed them down, and I slipped her sunglasses on.
“You shouldn’t go to the party tonight.”
“And have Kieran fling himself off the roof because I ruined his strategic seating arrangement? No thanks. I should be fine.”
“At least lie down.”
“I can’t. Mr. Preston should be here any moment. I deserve to be present for this interview.”
The doorbell rang, echoing through the brief silence. Instinctively, I wanted to argue with her because I knew what was best for her—or at least, that was what the old me would’ve believed—but I resigned. I had to trust her judgment.
“You do deserve to be present for a meeting concerning your life and safety. I’m only concerned for your well-being.”
Her lips tugged into a soft smile.
“Thank you for your concern, Grant. I won’t lie, I’m feeling it, but I need to meet the person who we will be paying an arm and a leg to protect us.”
“Thank you for your honesty. Just leave if it becomes too much.”
The doorbell rang again.
I answered the door and was greeted by a sharp-dressed man with neatly styled hair and a demeanor that exuded don’t-fuck-with-me confidence. I liked him already.
“Mr. Baker, I’m Graham Preston of Preston Personal Security. It’s a privilege to meet you,” he said, offering a hand. We shook hands, and I invited him in.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” I said, shutting and locking the door behind us.
“Your case is my priority,” he answered as he surveyed the foyer with fierce judgment.
“Perfect. Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Kiyah Baker,” I said as she strolled into the foyer with her sunglasses perched on her head.
“It’s lovely meeting you, Mr. Preston,” she acknowledged warmly, wrapping an arm around my waist. I kissed her temple.
“I wish I could say the same, but the fact that I’m here means we have a big problem on our hands.”
Kiyah’s smile instantly vanished, and reality came crashing in like an 18-wheeler against a brick wall. This wasn’t fucking social hour. There was a man with unimaginable wealth and political influence after the only woman I loved.
* * *
“Please tell us about your background, Mr. Preston.”
“I spent seven years in the Navy SEALS. I saw a lot and learned a lot about keeping myself and others alive in hostile situations. When I retired, I wanted to put the skills I mastered to work in a way that lets me protect people before things get ugly, not after,” he said, glancing at Kiyah.
“I’ve been in private security ever since. ”
“Did you receive any commendations while serving?” I questioned. Military commendations weren’t a requirement, but Mr. Preston piqued my curiosity.
“Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal, Joint Service Achievement Medal, and Combat Action Ribbon,” he answered bluntly. I nodded and proceeded to the next question.
“How long have you been in operation, and who are your typical clients?”
“Preston Personal Security has been operational for over 23 years. Our roster has included corporate executives, high-net-worth families, politicians, pop stars, rappers, large-scale sporting events, you name it.”
“Wow. That’s impressive,” Kiyah said, scratching a note on her legal pad.
“Thank you, Mrs. Baker.”
“Mr. Preston, you mentioned protecting political figures, but do you have experience protecting clients from high-profile political figures or individuals with significant influence?”
“Unfortunately,” he replied gravely. “We had some cases involving high-ranking politicians and billionaires who felt the law didn’t apply to them. Political threats are a beast of their own—you’re up against an entire system that was designed only to benefit a few.”
Kiyah cocked a brow.
“Anti-government?”
Mr. Preston smiled genuinely.
“I’m not an anarchist if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You’re not an anarchist, but you don’t trust the government,” she commented.
Mr. Preston sighed and patted his thighs—the first sign that he was uncomfortable and wasn’t in complete control.
“Like most SEALs, I live with PTSD. It has been manageable with psychotherapy, and I have an amazing support system, including my wife.”
“I’m sorry to be intrusive, and you don’t have to feel obligated to answer, but do you take medication to manage your symptoms?” I questioned.
“That’s none of your business, Grant,” Kiyah hissed. Mr. Preston laughed.
“It’s fine. To answer your question, I am not taking pharmaceuticals. I’ve managed fine with the holistic approach.”
“Wonderful. Can you provide verifiable references from clients who required long-term services?”
“Absolutely, but for privacy reasons, we’ll only connect you after the clients agree. We also have many written testimonials from individuals who’ve gone public about their experiences.”
“I read your company’s reviews. Your clients seem pleased with your services,” Kiyah praised. “Have any of your clients expressed dissatisfaction with your services?”
“Of course. In the past, I’ve encountered clients who thought they were bigger than the program.”
Kiyah chuckled, nudging me with her elbow, wanting me to join in.
Honestly, she’s laughing a little too hard for me; however, that’s just the jealousy talking.
I cleared my throat.
“Next question. Our case is highly sensitive. What measures do you take to ensure confidentiality?”
“All employees sign strict NDAs, undergo bi-annual polygraph testing, and we control all client-related data on an encrypted, offline system. No names or identifying details are used over open channels, and all company-issued electronic devices are highly monitored.”
“Great. Based on what you know, what’s your initial assessment of our security needs?”
“Given the complexity of your case, I’d recommend a three-layer approach—residential security with access control, a two-person rotating close-protection team for Mrs. Baker, and counter-surveillance to identify anyone gathering intel on you.”
“That sounds… involved,” Kiyah whispered.
“It is, and I promise we’ll handle your security as delicately as possible.
I can’t promise there won’t be times when you feel suffocated or when you find us intrusive and disruptive to your day-to-day life, but our goal isn’t disruption; it’s protection.
From what your husband tells me, Mr. Branson had you under heavy surveillance, correct? ”
Kiyah nodded listlessly.
“They were always watching—always near. I couldn’t go anywhere without SWAT-level protection.
At first, I thought he was concerned for his son after his wife’s death, but soon, I realized it was less about keeping his child safe and more about controlling me.
He had my phone cloned, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there were listening devices and cameras in my hotel room smoke detectors. ”
Mr. Preston nodded.
“I’m sorry for what you and your family are going through, and I can’t stress enough how I don’t want your family as long-term clients because the longer I’m around, the more danger that’s present.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Kiyah confessed, reaching for my hand. Immediately, I grasped it in mine. “I don’t want this to be our life forever or until he gets what he wants.”
“Have you ever lost a client?” I interjected.
“Once. She was 17, and the daughter of a senator. She gave her details the slip when she went to the ladies’ restroom at a public event.
She ditched her phone and tracking device and went out another bathroom exit.
She was meeting up with an ex-boyfriend to give him “closure,” and he decided he couldn’t live without her.
Tragically, she passed in a murder-suicide.
Since then, we have always kept a female bodyguard on staff when we have female clients. ”
I cleared my throat, hoping the ache would disappear. Children being hurt and killed was always a sore subject for me. They were my most difficult cases, and I always tried to pass them to Casey when his workload allowed it.
“Mr. Preston, we have no idea how long your services will be required. What is your billing structure? Do you bill hourly or is it a retainer?” Kiyah asked.
“For continuous protection, we recommend a retainer—it’s more cost-effective and guarantees team availability.
We can break it down into daily or hourly for special assignments.
Given your situation, you’re looking at a full protective detail plus counter-surveillance.
Our retainer for that level starts at $120,000 a month.
That covers manpower, equipment, and rapid-response.
Travel and non-typical expenses, such as overseas extraction, would be additional, but we pride ourselves at Preston Personal Security on being transparent.
There are no hidden fees or surprise bills. ”
“Thank you. We appreciate that,” Kiyah remarked.
“What do you think so far?”
“I—”
“Are your teams trained to shoot to kill?” I asked, interrupting Kiyah. From Mr. Preston’s slow blinking, I could tell I threw him off.
“Mr. Baker….”
“If my wife is in physical and mortal danger, will your team hesitate to take the shot?” Mr. Preston and I stared at each other—neither of us flinching. “Well?”
“My team would neutralize the threat by any means necessary—headshots, but I see that I’m not the right fit for you and your family,” Mr. Preston said, standing to his feet and buttoning his suit jacket. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Baker. I wish you and your family the best of luck.”
Confused, I followed him to the front door. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” He paused briefly with his hand on the door. “What the hell happened back there?”
He turned to confront me.
“Trauma is a poison that can infect anyone, even the most sane of us. You are not looking for protection, Mr. Baker. You’re looking for retribution, and you’re not using my men to do it. If you want someone to take your problem off your hands, then hire a fucking mercenary. Good luck, Mr. Baker.”
He left, leaving me utterly dumbfounded, but I shouldn’t have been because Mr. Preston saw right through me. I wanted the Governor Hopeful deceased, by any means necessary.