the bodyguard's secret
Leo Moretti lives a life of obscene luxury and crushing isolation. Trapped in a marriage to the powerful, volatile Dominic Rossi, Leo exists as a beautiful ornament, polished for public view and bruised in private. His only constant is Silas Vance, his stoic, ex-military bodyguard – a silent sentinel against the world, and against Dominic's unpredictable rage. When a moment of shared vulnerability ignites a forbidden spark, Leo and Silas plunge into a desperate, secret affair. Their stolen moments are electric, a dangerous lifeline in Leo's gilded prison. But as their passion deepens, so does the risk. Dominic Rossi doesn't share what's his, and when he discovers his beautiful husband's betrayal with the man hired to protect him, the gilded cage becomes a deadly trap. Leo and Silas must fight not just for their love, but for their very lives.
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Chapter: Chapter 48: The Dress RehearsalThe morning of October 13th dawned crisp and clear, with the kind of autumn light that made everything look like it had been painted in gold and amber. Leo stood at the kitchen window, coffee mug in hand, watching the sunrise paint their garden in shades of honey and fire. In two days, he would be married in that garden, surrounded by the people who mattered most to them.The thought sent a thrill of nervous excitement through him that was becoming familiar. For the past week, he'd been alternating between moments of pure joy and sudden attacks of wedding nerves—not about marrying Silas, never about that, but about being the center of attention, about speaking his vows in front of other people, about the weight of the moment they were about to share."You're thinking too loud again," Silas said, appearing behind him and wrapping his arms around Leo's waist.Leo leaned back into the solid warmth of his fiancé's chest, breathing in the familiar scent of soap and coffee and something ind
Last Updated: 2025-09-10
Chapter: Chapter 47: Ghosts and InvitationsThe week following their engagement passed in a blur of phone calls, planning sessions, and the kind of giddy excitement that Leo had never experienced before. He found himself humming while he painted, smiling at random moments throughout the day, and catching Silas watching him with an expression of such tender amazement that it made Leo's heart skip beats.They had decided on October 15th as their wedding date—exactly one month from Silas's proposal, long enough to plan properly but not so long that the anticipation would drive them both mad. Harlan had already made two trips down from his town to survey the garden and take measurements, his notebook filled with sketches for what he was calling "the most beautiful wedding arch in the history of Oregon."It was Thursday morning when the first complication arose.Leo was in his studio, working on a new painting inspired by the golden light of their engagement morning, when he heard Silas's phone ring in the workshop. The conversation
Last Updated: 2025-09-08
Chapter: Chapter 46: Planning in the Light The morning after Silas's proposal found them still on the swing, wrapped in a quilt Leo had retrieved from the house as the evening air grew cool. They had talked through the night, their voices soft in the darkness, planning a future that felt both impossible and inevitable. Now, with dawn painting the sky in watercolor pastels, Leo studied the wooden ring on his finger, marveling at how something so simple could feel so transformative. "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up," Leo murmured, his head resting against Silas's shoulder. "That this is too good, too perfect to be real." Silas's arm tightened around him, a gesture that had become as natural as breathing over the years. "It's real," he said, his voice rough with exhaustion and emotion. "We're real. This is real." Leo turned the ring on his finger, feeling the smooth grain of the wood, the careful craftsmanship that spoke of hours spent in Silas's workshop, planning and carving and sanding until every curve was perfec
Last Updated: 2025-09-06
Chapter: Chapter 45: New FoundationsFive Years LaterThe morning light filtered through the gauze curtains of the small art studio, casting dancing shadows across canvases propped against weathered easels. Leo Moretti stood before a half-finished painting, his brush poised in mid-air, studying the interplay of amber and gold that swirled across the canvas like captured sunlight. His hands, once smooth and manicured for Dominic's galas, now bore the honest calluses of creative work and the faint, silvered scars from that final night when purple fire had consumed everything.Five years. Five years since the cabin in the valley, since the quiet mornings on the porch steps, since the slow, careful process of learning to breathe again. The scars had faded, but they remained—not just on his hands, but in the careful way he still checked locks twice, in the way his shoulders tensed when footsteps approached too quickly behind him, in the dreams that sometimes pulled him back to marble floors and champagne flutes that felt like
Last Updated: 2025-09-05
Chapter: Epilogue: Anchor in the Quiet**Three Weeks Later**Sunlight, real and warm, streamed through the window of the small, secluded cabin. It wasn’t the ranger station, nor the Crossroads. It was a place Winters had led them to – a forgotten forestry outpost nestled in a sun-drenched valley miles from the scorched earth of the final battle. Untraceable. Quiet.Leo sat on a worn porch step, his hands wrapped in clean bandages. The burns from the purple fire were healing, thanks to Petrova’s relentless care, but the skin was still tender, pink, and would likely always bear the marks. He watched the sunlight dapple through the aspen leaves, listening to the simple, profound sounds of life: birdsong, the rustle of wind, the distant gurgle of a stream.The screen door creaked open. Silas stepped out, moving slowly, deliberately. He still carried a fragility, a hesitancy in his movements, a shadow in his eyes that hadn't been there before the neural torture and the shattering psychic backlash. But the frantic terror, the co
Last Updated: 2025-08-05
Chapter: Chapter 43: The Last EmberThe silence in the ranger station cabin wasn't peaceful. It was the quiet after a bomb blast, thick with the acrid smell of contained dread and Petrova’s antiseptics. Silas lay unnervingly still, his breathing shallow, the blood beneath his nose a dark, dried accusation. Leo hadn’t moved from his vigil at the cot’s side, Silas’s cold hand clasped in his own, as if sheer will could anchor the drifting mind within. The vial pouch sat on the rickety table like a malevolent totem, its faint purple glow seeming to pulse in the dim lantern light.Petrova’s words hung in the air, colder than the mountain drafts seeping through the logs: *"He’ll come for it. The only thing left that was his before the fire."*Harlan finally broke the suffocating quiet. He pushed himself off the wall, his movements stiff, the grief for Mack now overlaid with the grim residue of Shale’s agonizing end and the hospital basement. **>** His voice was gravel. **>**The Ghost stood sentinel
Last Updated: 2025-08-05
letters that staved
In the coastal quiet of Baler, a studio is born—not of architecture, but of intention.*
Founded by Yam, a poet whose words cradle pain gently, and Franc, an artist who paints tenderness into walls, the studio becomes a refuge for those learning to stay—with grief, love, longing, and themselves.
As visitors arrive, they leave behind more than footprints: a sigh recorded in bamboo, a poem tucked into the “Found Letters” shelf, a mural painted in crooked lines. Through zines, tea, silence, and sketchbooks, the studio teaches softness as revolution.
Ren creates the *Window of Soft Returns*, an installation of anonymous voice recordings—each whisper forming a community of echoes. Drew builds the *Staircase With No Wrong Turns*, inviting people to walk through emotions without shame.
Franc offers brushstrokes as brave work, and Yam curates writing circles that map healing in half sentences. Together, they host festivals that feel like hugs, and they begin traveling their archive, letting softness cross oceans.
Even those who once left—like Miguel—return, discovering that some doors never truly close. Others, like Tala, capture the studio’s sound and turn it into a podcast of breath and becoming.
Over seventy chapters, the studio transforms into something larger than itself: a mural of memory, a sanctuary for second chances, a place where return is sacred and voice is proof of survival.
In the final bloom, the studio stands not as a monument—but as a reminder:
> *“Staying isn’t easy.
> But chosen together,
> it becomes home.”*
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Chapter: Part 87: “Pages Others Left Me to Finish”🪶 Let’s gently unfold Part 87—a quiet moment shaped by unfinished pages, by others trusting Jo to carry stories they couldn’t complete on their own. This chapter breathes in shared vulnerability.The studio breathed dust and possibility. Late afternoon light slanted through high windows, catching motes that swirled like lazy constellations above Jo’s head. She sat at the sturdy oak table, scarred by decades of creation, surrounded by scattered sheets. These weren't rejects; they were arrivals. Some, thin as onion skin, bore the faintest charcoal ghosts of landscapes or faces, torn deliberately at the edges as if the maker couldn't bear the commitment of a full page. Others were heavier stock, marked only with hesitant outlines – a single wing, the curve of a jawline, a geometric shape dissolving into nothingness. No names. No instructions. Just offerings, left anonymously in the studio’s overnight slot or tucked onto the communal shelves. Silent pleas, perhaps. Or simply things relea
Last Updated: 2025-08-05
Chapter: Part 86: “The Visitor Who Found Their Story Waiting”🌾 Let's walk gently into Part 86—a page shaped by memory, discovered unexpectedly. This one isn’t about creating—it’s about recognizing yourself in something already waiting.A traveler named Lani arrived in Baler near dusk. The sky was brushed with strokes of orange and violet, the horizon dipped in gold where the sun kissed the sea. She hadn’t planned to visit the studio. In fact, she hadn’t planned much at all. Lani was chasing quiet—following maps drawn by feeling rather than direction, a compass guided by whispers of wind and the silent language of her heart.She walked along the narrow path, her sandals stirring the dust, her mind adrift in the spaces between thoughts. As she passed the entryway, an unexpected pull anchored her steps. She paused before Jo’s mural: vast, alive, and breathing a story she couldn’t quite place. Her gaze traced the painted lavender spirals, bold yet tender, swirling like echoes of forgotten dreams.She didn’t speak.She stared.Her heart drummed a s
Last Updated: 2025-08-05
Chapter: Part 85: “The Mural That Listened Back”🕊️ Let’s let the story flow gently forward—Part 85 is a quiet evolution, where visitors begin expressing in color, sound, and gesture what they once hid behind words. This one celebrates the art of receiving.By sunrise, Jo’s mural had begun to gather echoes.Not just paint.Offerings.Someone placed a mango wrapped in blue thread beside it. Another taped a folded paper near the lavender spirals with only a date written: June 3. No explanation. Just presence.Yam watched as visitors paused, touched the wall lightly, and then left small tokens—colors, textures, folded fabric—without words.He whispered to Ren, “It’s listening.”Ren replied, “And they’re replying in the only language they trust.”Franc added a thin layer of translucent gold over one corner—a glaze that shifted depending on the light. It caught footprints, glances, and breaths.He named it:“What Was Left Behind, Intentionally”Jo didn’t try to lead the mural anymore. She added small strokes only when moved. She said, “
Last Updated: 2025-08-05
Chapter: Part 84: “Letters Made of Color”🌸 The journey continues—Part 84 opens like a page that’s already soft with fingerprints, a space where color becomes language, and memory finds new form.Jo woke early, the air in Baler stitched with sea salt and sunrise. She sat by the studio’s east-facing window, sketchbook open, brushes laid out like questions waiting to be answered. The gentle hum of the ocean was a constant companion, a soothing backdrop to her creative process. Today, she wasn’t writing letters today. She was painting them.The studio was a sanctuary, a place where time seemed to pause, allowing Jo to immerse herself in the world of colors and emotions. The walls were adorned with her previous works, each piece a testament to her journey, her struggles, and her triumphs. But today, the blank wall panel near the mural of Soft Arrivals beckoned her, a canvas waiting to be filled with stories untold.Yam passed by silently, placing a bowl of water beside her without comment. His presence was comforting, a reminder
Last Updated: 2025-08-05
Chapter: Part 83: “Sketches That Didn’t Need Translation”🕊️ Here we go again,—Part 83 unfolds like shared brushstrokes, a conversation not through words but through texture, color, and quiet understanding. This one is where Jo begins not by speaking, but by painting.Part 84: Letters in ColorThe next morning, Jo arrived at the studio earlier than usual, her sketchbook tucked under her arm, pages filled with restless lines from a sleepless night. The mural on the south wall greeted her, a breathing tapestry of colors and textures, layered stories etched in every curve and stroke.Franc was already there, his hands stained with shades of ochre and teal. He glanced over his shoulder, his smile a quiet echo of yesterday's collaboration."Morning, collaborator," he greeted softly, the word lingering like a brushstroke still drying.Jo returned the smile, settling into her usual corner. But something felt different. The space between them wasn’t just filled with silence—it buzzed with an unspoken invitation.She pulled out a fresh sheet of pape
Last Updated: 2025-08-05
Chapter: Part 82: “The Road to Arrival Begins with Recognition”🕊️ Let's keep weaving the thread,—Part 82 arrives like a suitcase packed with feelings, an unspoken map folded into the lining. This one follows motion—not rushed, but intentional.Jo had never meant to visit Baler.She’d read about the studio in zines, heard its echoes in Ren’s loops, and received letters from strangers she’d never meet. It felt sacred from afar—like stepping into it might disturb the silence she’d held close. But today, Jo boarded a bus with a small sketchbook in her bag and one mango tucked gently inside a linen pouch. No itinerary. Just intention.The bus rumbled through dusty roads framed by hills that rolled like quiet breaths of the earth itself. Jo watched the landscape shift, sunlight casting fleeting patterns on her sketchbook’s cover. She flipped it open, letting her pencil trace lines instinctively—faces observed in fleeting glances, emotions felt but undiagnosed.Meanwhile, the studio in Baler breathed patiently.Franc painted a wide ocean wave curling i
Last Updated: 2025-08-04
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