Three

The plane ride felt incredibly short, mostly because I spent it drifting in and out of a restless sleep.

When the wheels finally touched down, I felt a heavy thud in my chest.

Montana.

I'd thought people were exaggerating when they talked about the Rocky Mountains, but I was properly humbled.

The air was crisp, and the peaks were jagged against the sky, exactly like in the photos Mom used to keep hidden in her jewelry box.

It was beautiful, and for a split second, the grief didn't feel quite so heavy.

As the plane came to a halt, the pilot announced our arrival. I caught Marcus glancing at one of the flight attendants-a lingering, uncharacteristic look.

In the midst of my own mess, seeing a spark of life in someone else felt like a lifeline.

"Go," I said softly, nudging his shoulder. He looked at me, instantly alert, his professional mask snapping back into place. "Get her number. I'll wait outside."

"Ms. Alvarez, that's not-"

"It's okay, really. Just go." I didn't wait for his protest. I grabbed my bag and headed down the steps, wanting to feel the mountain air on my face.

The family bodyguards were already positioned by the cars.

One took my luggage while another opened the door.

"Marcus is still inside. We're waiting for him," I told the driver. He gave a curt nod, and I settled into the back, staring out at the tarmac.

When Marcus finally emerged, he had a small, satisfied look in his eyes that he quickly tried to hide as he slid into the seat beside me.

"You get it?" I asked, looking for any excuse to talk about something other than my mother's funeral.

"I did. Thank you, Miss," he replied, his voice back to its usual formal clip.

"I'm happy for you. You don't need to be alone just because I am." It was a blunt thing to say, and the silence that followed was thick.

I turned to the window, watching the landscape blur by. I wasn't trying to be a 'cool boss'; I was desperate for the people around me to be okay, because I certainly wasn't.

My stomach growled and we made a quick stop at a cafe. I insisted the other guards eat, even when they tried to play the stoic professionals.

I needed the noise of people eating and talking to drown out the quiet in my head.

The house Dad bought was exactly what I'd asked for. A modern, two-story place that felt like a home rather than a monument to his wealth.

Marcus showed me around, explaining that he'd overseen the move. It had everything-a pool, a movie room, and a kitchen with black marble countertops that I actually loved.

I went straight to my room, the exhaustion of the trip finally winning.

I woke up hours later to the smell of eggs and toast.

When I walked into the kitchen, Mark was already plating food.

"Welcome back, Ms. Alvarez," he said.

"Thanks, Mark." I slid onto a stool, watching him move. "You didn't have to cook."

"It's my job to ensure you're taken care of."

He accidentally flicked a piece of egg while moving the pan. It hit the counter. I stared at it, then reached out to pick it up.

"Ms. Alvarez, don't-I'll clean that."

"It's just an egg, Mark." I sighed, watching as his jaw clenched. I realized then that he was my only anchor here. "I don't know what I'd do if you were as stiff as the other guys."

He paused, a small, genuine smile breaking through his professional exterior. "I'll try to keep the 'stiffness' to a minimum, then."

I went back to my room to freshen up. I needed to get out. I needed to see the town Mom loved so much.

I dragged Mark toward my Chevrolet Camaro, which was my sixteenth birthday present, and hit the road.

The mall was a mistake.

As we stepped out of the car, the shift in the atmosphere was immediate.

It wasn't just the cold mountain breeze; it was the eyes. Everywhere we went, people gawked. I realized quickly that in this part of Montana, Marcus and I were the only specks of color in a sea of white.

Mom had spoken so fondly of her home, but she'd never mentioned the weight of being the only ones who looked like us.

I pulled Marcus aside, my heart beginning to race. "They're staring because of our skin, aren't they?"

He took a breath, his eyes scanning the crowd with a protector's focus. "It appears so. Let's just get what you need and get back to the house."

We went into a clothing store, but the tension didn't lift. The cashier, a kid who looked barely older than me, followed us with a look of pure suspicion.

When we finally got to the counter, he didn't even bother looking at the price tags.

"That'll be two thousand dollars," he said, his voice flat and challenging.

I paused, my hand hovering over my wallet. "You didn't even check the prices."

"I don't need to. Pay up or leave. Unless you don't have that kind of money?" His smirk was devious.

I felt a surge of that familiar, hot anger, but Marcus's hand moved to my bicep-a warning and a comfort.

Releasing a sigh, I swiped my card and the kid's face fell as the transaction cleared instantly.

"How'd you get a card like this?" he muttered, handing it back. "Steal it?"

I matched his fake smile, but mine felt like ice. "No. I earned it. Just like the ownership of this store, which my father will be looking into by Monday morning." I leaned in slightly, my eyes dropping to the plastic rectangle pinned to his shirt. "Enjoy your weekend...Elliot."

I turned and walked out, my cheeks burning with the rage I felt.

Once we reached the safety of the car, the adrenaline faded, leaving me feeling hollow and shaky.

"You should have ignored him," Marcus said quietly as he buckled his seatbelt. He wasn't yelling, but the mild chastisement in his voice stung. "You can't let someone get under your skin so easily, Ms. Alvarez. People like that thrive on your reaction."

I let out a long, shaky sigh and rested my forehead against the steering wheel. "I know. I know that, Marcus. But he made me feel so small. Like I was just...some dirt on the side of the road. Like I didn't belong in the one place my mom actually felt at home."

Marcus reached over, patting my shoulder with a firm, steady hand. "You belong wherever you want to be," he said firmly. "And no small-minded boy in a retail vest gets to decide otherwise. Drive."

The drive home was quiet. I spent the rest of the weekend in a state of low-level anxiety. I looked at myself in the mirror-my curls, my light brown eyes, the monolid shape that spoke of my grandmother's Chinese heritage.

I was a mix of so many things, a living history of my parents' unending love.

I just hoped that tomorrow, when I walked into that school, I'd find a way to exist without feeling like a target.