The New Guard

Sloane had been awake since four a.m, haunted by what she’d seen in Nathaniel’s office. As she dressed, she practiced looking like a happy, clueless wife but her eyes betrayed her thoughts. 

She sat across from Nathaniel at breakfast, pretending to eat toast while waiting for him to leave for his nine o’clock meeting. Then she had two hours to go to Christine Moreau’s office, a divorce lawyer she found online, hoping to learn if the photos she had were enough to end her marriage.

“There’s a change to the household staff today,” Nathaniel said, not looking up from his tablet.

Sloane held the knife still. “Change?”

“I hired a new head of security. He starts today.”

The jam jar almost slipped from her hand, but she caught it and placed it carefully on the table.

“What happened to Martin?”

“Martin’s been moved. Gate duty matches his skills. This is for your protection, don’t question it.”

Protection! 

Yesterday she was apparently safe enough with elderly Martin and his crossword puzzles. Today, twelve hours after she’d discovered a secret, she suddenly needed an upgrade.

“I didn’t know I required protecting,” she said lightly, taking a sip of coffee.

“You wouldn’t, but it’s my responsibility to watch for danger,” he said, finally looking at her from the distant with his blue eyes. “The Vance name draws attention, Sloane. As my wife, you’ll be in the spotlight. This is just a precaution.”

Before she could answer without saying “the name belongs to me,” the front door chimed. Mrs. Adler’s came down the hall, and her usually brisk voice sounded cautious as she spoke with someone.

“Mr. Blackwell,” Mrs. Adler said, appearing in the doorway, a bit flustered. “Mr. Cross is here.” He didn’t just enter the breakfast nook but also took it over.

Damon Cross was tall, around six-three, with a lean, muscular build that hinted at a violent profession. He wore a plain but expensive gray suit that revealed a shoulder holster when he moved. His hair was cut short, his face marked by scars, including a thin white line through his left eyebrow. His cold, pale gray eyes currently scanning the room that included exit points, sightlines, and everything, including Sloane with the same detached precision.

“Mr. Blackwell,” Damon said. His voice was low, calm, and showed no respect.

“Damon, welcome.” Nathaniel stood, extending his hand. The handshake was brief and formal. “This is my wife, Sloane Blackwell.”

He fixed her with an empty stare. “Mrs. Blackwell.”

“Mr. Cross,” she said, hiding her nerves. “Welcome to The Gables.”

He nodded slightly to her, then turned back to Nathaniel. “I’ve checked the estate and schedules. I need full access to the past 72 hours of security footage, complete building blueprints including the penthouse office including Mrs. Blackwell’s schedule for the next two weeks.”

Sloane’s coffee cup paused halfway to her lips. “My schedule?”

“For protection,” Damon said, watching her closely. “Your regular locations, appointment times, frequent contacts. Baseline pattern is needed to detect threats.”

She set the cup down slowly. “Threat detection for what, exactly? Has something happened?”

“It’s routine for high-profile clients,” Damon said, as if she’d asked something silly. “Your movements have to be managed.”

Sloane looked at Nathaniel, who quietly expected her to accept the intrusion.

“This feels like too much,” she said, keeping her voice light, confused rather than angry. “Martin never needed to track my yoga classes and lunch dates.”

“Martin wasn’t trained in executive protection. My methods cover every detail because gaps are dangerous.” Damon said, his tone calm but his presence tense. “This isn’t personal Mrs. Blackwell, it’s just professional.”

“It feels personal when a stranger wants all the details of my life.” Sloane said, letting her anger show. “I don’t need a babysitter, Mr. Cross.”

Damon stepped closer with his hands behind his back, calm and confident, “No, Mrs. Blackwell. You don’t need a babysitter,” he spoke softly as he looked straight at her. “You need a bodyguard. And as of now, you have one. I’ll go with you to all appointments starting with” he glanced at his phone, “your ten o’clock at the Blackwell Building and your eleven-thirty across town.”

Sloane felt a chill. She had no appointment at the Blackwell Building and her eleven-thirty meeting was with Christine Moreau’s, the lawyer she’d booked earlier that morning with a burner email and hadn’t told anyone about.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” she answered. “I don’t have anything at ten.”

Damon’s expression didn’t change. “Mr. Blackwell’s calendar shows a fabric fitting for the anniversary dinner on the third floor design studio. He planned it as a surprise.”

Nathaniel smiled. “I know you’ve been worried about the timeline for your dress so I had Margot free up her morning. Consider it an early anniversary gift.”

The perfect trap guiding her to the attorney exactly as Nathaniel wanted her, all planned. Sloane smiled back.

“That’s so thoughtful, darling. Thank you.”

“And eleven-thirty?” Damon asked naturally. “Your calendar says it’s a personal appointment, no location listed.”

She went speechless. She’d been so careful, but he’d accessed her phone somehow, or her email, or—

Dress fitting,” she lied. “I left out the location since I wasn’t sure which boutique was free. I can cancel it since we’ve got the consultation this morning.”

Damon looked at her for a little too long before glancing at Nathaniel, who nodded.

“No need to cancel,” Nathaniel said. “Damon can take you to both. I want you to have the perfect day.” He stood, checked his watch. “I have to leave for the Singapore call. Damon, a word in my study before you go?”

The men walked away, their voices fading. Sloane stayed still, her thoughts spinning. He had lied about the ten o’clock meeting to stop her eleven-thirty appointment, but how much did Nathaniel know? Had Damon already checked the security footage and seen her take the executive elevator back upstairs at two in the morning?

Mrs. Adler returned and began clearing the breakfast dishes as usual, she leaned in slightly as she reached for Sloane’s untouched toast.

“Flowers came earlier, ma’am. There was no card, so I left them in your sitting room.”

Her heart raced. “What flowers?”

“White camellias, I think those were your mother’s favorite.” Mrs. Adler said with concern. “I found it strange that they arrived at dawn without a note.”

White camellias—her mother had grown them in their garden and once told Sloane they meant “you’re adorable” in the Victorian language of flowers, she had kept them on her always. Sloane hadn’t mentioned that to anyone except—

Her phone vibrated against the table. It was an unknown number. She glanced toward the hall where Nathaniel and Damon were still talking, then opened the message.

Unknown: The flowers are a warning. He’s moving faster than you think, don’t go to the attorney, you’re being watched. Delete this message, I’ll reach out again when it’s safe.

Sloane’s hands trembled as she read it again, confused. Who sent this? How did they know about the attorney and her mother’s flowers?

Footsteps in the hallway, approaching.

She deleted the message, put her phone face-down, and picked up her coffee with steady hands. Nathaniel appeared, briefcase in hand, looking perfect and smiling. He came over, kissed her temple, and said, “I’ll be back by six. Enjoy your day, darling. Damon will take good care of you.”

Damon stood in the doorway behind him, watching Nathaniel’s kiss before turning his pale eyes to Sloane with an unreadable look.

“I’ll get the car ready, Mrs. Blackwell. We leave in fifteen minutes,” He wasn’t asking.

“Of course.” Sloane smiled up at him, the perfect picture of compliance.

As the two men walked out, she heard Nathaniel say from the hall, pleased, “I knew you were the right choice, Damon. She trusts too easily.” The door shut, and the house went quiet.

Sloane sat alone in the sunlit breakfast nook, white camellias in her sitting room like a warning or a promise, a troubling thought burning in her mind, and a bodyguard, told she trusted too easily, blocking every exit.

Her phone vibrated again.

She looked down.

Unknown: Check the flowers, there’s something inside.

Sloane looked up and saw Damon by the black Mercedes in the circular drive, back to the house, talking on his phone.

But his lips weren’t moving.

And he was looking directly at her sitting room window.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​