Chapter five

PHOEBE

I spent the entire night tossing and turning, my mind trapped in a chaotic, unending loop of ocean-blue eyes and haunted confessions.

Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory.

The man literally couldn’t forget a single bad day if he tried. Every slight, every grief, every scratch on a wall or tone of voice was locked away in his brain in permanent, unyielding high-definition. It was mind-blowing, it’s exciting yet I could guess how exhausting it might also be. I couldn’t even remember what I’d eaten for breakfast last Thursday, and my entire childhood before the age of ten was just a blank, velvety void of nothingness—a biological mercy file my brain had apparently decided to delete for my own sanity.

Jeremy says I had a traumatic childhood and my brain must have resetted life for me, so I start on a clean slate.

How ironic that the universe had slammed the two of us together next door to each other: the girl who remembered almost nothing, and the man who remembered absolutely everything.

As the morning sun filtered through my bedroom curtains, casting long rays of golden light across my messy vanity, I felt a strange, aching pull toward him. It was a dangerous sentiment for a girl like me. My primary survival strategy had always been fueled by unfiltered sunshine, forced optimism, and deliberately ignoring the shadows. Peter Ambrose was nothing but shadows, wrapped in a perfectly tailored Brunello Cucinelli suit. Oh I hate that I love that suit.

But when I walked up the steps to his front door at precisely nine in the morning, any soft, sympathetic feelings I had cultivated during my sleepless night vanished into thin air.

The angel of death was back in full, unedited form.

The front door clicked open before I could even raise my hand to ring the bell. Peter stood there, looking entirely too imposing for a random Thursday morning. He wore a crisp black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled tightly up his forearms, exposing the lean, corded muscle and those ridiculously beautiful hands I’d noticed in the car. His hair was perfectly coiffed, his jawline looked sharp enough to cut glass, and his expression was as cold and unreadable as a marble headstone. He held an expression similar to boredom but the man always wore that so I’m choosing not to let that bring down my everyday high spirits. So I did what I always do, I plastered the brightest, cheeriest smile I can muster.

"You're late," he deadpanned, stepping aside to let me pass. "I texted you to be here at eight-thirty."

I rolled my eyes, even though I try to be my kind, loving self around this asshole, he tends to pull all his cards from hell to ensure I bring out my sass but woe onto him, he won’t be getting an ounce of what he so desperately desires today. I stepped inside deliberately brushing past him so closely that the woodsy, expensive scent of his cologne—mixed with the sharp tang of morning espresso—invaded my senses. "Good morning to you too, Princess. And for the record, normal people consider nine a.m. a perfectly reasonable hour to visit a neighbor. We aren't all trading corporate stocks at the butt crack of dawn."

He closed the door with a firm, definitive click that echoed through the minimalist foyer. "I don't do 'reasonable hours,' Phoebe. I do efficiency. Follow me."

I trailed behind him and followed him into the kitchen, my canvas sneakers squeaking slightly against the polished hardwood floors. His apartment was still overwhelmingly sterile, looking less like a home and more like a high-end architectural magazine feature. Or a model of ‘what a home should look like’ in reality tv. No stray keys on the counter. No shoes by the door. It was maddening. The angel of death never ceases to amaze me.

Peter didn't sit down. He walked behind the white quartz kitchen island, picked up a thick, bound packet of heavy paper, and slid it across the smooth surface. It landed right in front of me with a heavy, ominous thud.

I stared down at it. Printed in bold, clinical, corporate lettering across the cardstock cover page were the words: AMBROSE SECURITY CONCEPT: PERSONAL PROTECTION AND COMPLIANCE PROTOCOL (SUBJECT: PHOEBE LAWRENCE).

I blinked, looking from the document up to his bored face. I looked at it again unsure I had read right. "What the hell is this? Are you suing me for the cinnamon rolls? I made it with the best ingredients and with my special recipe. I had no idea you’d be allergic to something or maybe you’re allergic to sugar. I swear I had no idea”

"It's a contract," Peter said, crossing his arms over his chest. His posture was rigid, calculated, and entirely unbothered by the sheer absurdity of the situation. "Jeremy put you under my protection. And As I told your brother, I am not a babysitter. I don't do casual favors, and I don't rely on verbal agreements. Verbal agreements have variables. Variables introduce risk. I eliminate risk. Open it."

My stomach did a weird, nervous flip, but my stubbornness quickly overrode it. I pulled the heavy packet toward me and flipped to the first page.

The text was laid out in dense, legal font, complete with bullet points, sub-clauses, and bolded warnings. My eyes skipped across the lines, and with every sentence I read, my jaw detached itself further from my face until I was certain it had hit the floor.

Section 1.1: Curfew and Transit Restrictions. Subject shall return to the primary residence no later than 11:00 PM on weekdays and 12:30 AM on weekends. Any deviation from these hours requires written notification no less than six (6) hours prior.

"An eleven o'clock curfew?" I gasped, my voice rising an octave. "Are you out of your mind? Peter, I have a late shift at Finesse on Thursdays that doesn't even wrap up until after midnight! And on Tuesdays I have meetings at the secretariat that lasts until 1:30. What am I supposed to do, tell my boss I have to leave early because my neighbor turned into Cinderella’s wicked stepmother? Even Jeremy wasn’t giving me curfews and stopping me from my shifts.”

"You will adjust your shifts," he replied smoothly, his voice a calm, chilling contrast to my mounting panic. "Or you will find a different establishment to employ you. Keep reading."

I let out a sharp, hysterical laugh and flipped the page, my finger practically tearing at the heavy paper.

Section 2.4: Real-Time Location Synchronization. Subject will d******d and maintain active GPS tracking via the Ambrose Core mobile application at all times. Location services must remain set to 'Always Allow.' Turning off cellular data or disabling location tracking will be deemed an immediate breach of contract.

"Tracking? You want to track my phone?" I slammed my hand down on the counter, the sheer audacity of it making my blood instantly begin to simmer. "I am a twenty-one-year-old college student, Peter! I am an adult! And sorry to burst your bubble but You are not the FBI, and I am not a corporate asset you just acquired in a hostile takeover!"

"You are a walking security breach," he countered, his ocean-blue eyes narrowing just a fraction of an inch, locking onto mine with laser intensity. "You get stranded in the middle of lonelyville during torrential rainstorms because your 'hope for the best' strategy fails you. You have an aggressive, trust-fund ex-boyfriend who doesn't understand the word no, and according to Jeremy, you have an anonymous stalker sending you messages. You are entirely unequipped to handle any of these threats, Phoebe. The tracking app is non-negotiable."

"It is entirely negotiable because I am not signing this garbage!" I fired back, my chest heaving as my frustration spilled over. I flipped violently to the next page, my eyes catching on another highlighted block of text.

Section 3.2: Freelance and Professional Vetting. All freelance makeup clients, off-campus locations, and external appointments must be submitted via the Ambrose Core portal forty-eight (48) hours in advance. No appointments may be conducted in private residences without prior background clearance from Ambrose Group Security personnel.

"Background checks for my makeup clients?" I screeched, throwing my hands in the air. "Do you have any idea how freelance works? Someone texts me because their sister’s prom makeup artist canceled at the last minute, and I show up with my kit to make fifty bucks so I can buy groceries! If I tell them I need forty-eight hours to run a background check on their aunt, I will never get hired again! My side hustle will literally die!"

"Then let it die," Peter said flatly.

The sheer coldness of his delivery hit me like a slap in the face. I froze, staring at him. He stood there, perfectly composed, as if he hadn't just casually suggested I ruin the business I had spent the last two years building from scratch with my own sweat, blood, and tears.

"What did you just say?" I whispered, my voice dropping from outraged screech to a dangerous, low vibration.

"If your freelance business requires you to walk into unvetted, private locations with absolute strangers while someone is actively stalking you, then yes. Let it die," Peter repeated, his tone entirely devoid of empathy. "I am responsible for your physical safety. I am not responsible for your financial portfolio or your artistic fulfillment. If you need money, I will write you a check for whatever your meager makeup hustle brings in monthly, and you will stay inside the perimeter."

My face flamed an intense, furious crimson. The insult stung, burning through my skin until my teeth clicked together. Meager makeup hustle. He said it so easily, with the casual arrogance of a multimillionaire CEO who had completed a five-year joint MBA program in two years. He had no idea what it was like to count pennies, to skip meals, or to feel the immense, beautiful pride of a client looking in the mirror and crying because you made them feel beautiful. He didn't care about beauty. He cared about numbers, contracts, and control.

"I don't want your blood money from the pit of hell, Peter Ambrose," I spat, my voice shaking with raw rage. "And I don't want your clinical, psychotic protocol. You can take this thick piece of corporate trash and shove it up whatever vital organ your stick-up-the-assitis hasn't punctured yet."

I gripped the contract, raised it over my head, and slammed it back down onto the quartz island, shoving it violently toward his chest.

Peter didn't move. He didn't flinch as the papers skidded across the counter, stopping just an inch from his hands. But the atmosphere in the kitchen shifted instantly. The air grew heavy, thick with sudden, suffocating tension. The slight shadow of a smirk that usually played at the corners of his mouth when I riled him up was entirely gone. His eyes darkened, turning from a bright, piercing ocean blue into the color of a stormy, violent sea.

"Are you done?" he asked, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl that sent a sudden, traitorous shiver straight down my spine.

"No, I am not done," I said, though my internal bravado was suddenly screaming at me to take a step back. I planted my hands on the edge of the island, leaning in closer to him, refusing to let him see that he intimidated me. "You think you can just move into my brother's house, drop a leash on my neck, and expect me to wag my tail and thank you? I've survived twenty-one years without your high-tech security grid. I survived a childhood that Jeremy won't even talk about. I can handle a cheating ex-boyfriend and a few creepy text messages. I don't need a dictator. I don't need you."

Peter slowly leaned forward, matching my movement until our faces were only inches apart across the narrow quartz barrier.

The proximity was utterly overwhelming. Up close, I could see the minute gold flecks in his dark eyes, the sharp, rigid line of his jaw, and the slight rise and fall of his chest. The expensive, masculine scent of his leather and spice cologne washed over me, heavy and intoxicating. My heart began to hammer a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs—not just from anger anymore, but from a sudden, dizzying burst of pure adrenaline.

"You are incredibly naive, Phoebe," Peter whispered, his voice a cool, lethal caress against my skin. "You think the world is a playground made of pink tulle and roses. You think everyone sees a girl who’s always cheery and throws daisies and sunshine dust at her because she’s cheery. You think because you smile at people and bake them cinnamon rolls, the universe is going to protect you from the monsters lurking in the dark."

"I am not naive," I fiercely whispered back, my eyes locking onto his.

"You are," he insisted, his gaze dipping briefly to my lips before snapping back to my eyes with a intensity that made my breath catch in my throat. "You have no concept of what real danger looks like. You think your ex-boyfriend is just a trust-fund brat, and you think your stalker is a harmless nuisance. You don't see the patterns. I see them. I remember every single detail of every threat I have ever encountered, and I am telling you right now: you are exposed."

"Then let me be exposed!" I cried out, frustrated by the sheer brick wall of his resolve. "It's my life! If I get hurt, it's on me, not you!"

"It is on me," Peter barked, his voice cracking through the quiet kitchen like a gunshot. His hand shot out, his long, powerful fingers gripping the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles turned stark white. "I gave Jeremy my word. Do you understand what that means? I don't make promises, Phoebe. Ever. But when I do, I commit to them fully. Which means whether you like it or not, whether you sign that paper or tear it into shreds, you are under my protection. And I will enforce it."

"I'd like to see you try," I challenged, my heart leaping into my throat.

Peter stared at me for a long, agonizing beat. The silence between us stretched, thick and electric, humming with a dangerous chemistry that neither of us wanted to acknowledge. My eyes flicked down to his hand on the counter, remembering the scorching, intense heat of his touch when he had pulled me back into the car at the bakery. It had burned through my skin, settling deep in the pit of my stomach, a lingering warmth that had terrified me.

Slowly, Peter stood up straight, pulling back from the island and smoothing down the front of his immaculate black shirt. The lethal predator vanished, tucked back away behind the polished, icy mask of the billionaire CEO.

"We're done here," he said, his voice dropping back into its usual bored, indifferent cadence. "The contract stays on the counter. You have until Sunday evening to sign it and d******d the application. If you choose not to comply, I will simply find other, more intrusive ways to ensure your safety. Ways that you will like significantly less."

I let out a sharp, indignant huff, my face still burning with a mixture of fury and adrenaline. "You are an insufferable, arrogant prick, Peter Ambrose."

"So I've been told," he replied, turning his back to me and walking toward the espresso machine as if I were nothing more than a minor annoyance he had already factored into his daily schedule. "Close the door on your way out. And Phoebe?"

I paused, my hand already reaching for the strap of my tote bag. "What?"

"Don't wear that white shirt in the rain again," he said, not even turning around as the machine began to whir to life. "My Artura’s interior is expensive, and I have a highly superior memory. I don't need the distraction permanented in my brain."

My jaw dropped again, a hot, furious blush exploding across my cheeks, moving down my neck and straight into the collar of my tank top. I grabbed my bag, spun on my heel, and marched toward the front door, my chest completely tight with a volatile mix of embarrassment and blinding rage.

"Asshole!" I yelled back at him.

I slammed his heavy front door behind me so hard I was certain the glass panels in his industrial-chic lamps would shatter.

I stormed down the steps, my feet pounding against the pavement as I marched across the small, shared yard toward the safety of my own house. The humid summer air hit my face, but it did nothing to cool the raging fire burning beneath my skin.

He was infuriating. He was controlling. He was entirely, structurally insane.

I burst through my own front door, throwing my keys onto the entryway table with a loud clatter. I walked straight into the kitchen, pulled open the fridge, and poured myself a massive glass of ice-cold water, downing half of it in a desperate attempt to reset my system.

My hands were shaking. I looked down at them, watching the slight tremor in my fingers. Every single encounter with Peter Ambrose left me completely unhinged. He riled up a dark, aggressive side of me that I didn't even know existed. I was a pacifist. I was the girl who organized farewell parties and baked peace offerings for people who kicked her out of their apartments. But within ten minutes of being in a room with him, I wanted to physically punch his beautiful, sculpted face.

You are under my protection.

His words echoed in my mind, heavy and threatening. I set my glass down on the counter and looked out the kitchen window. Across the driveway, the sleek, predatory shape of his black McLaren idled under the shade of the oak trees, looking like a high-tech weapon parked in a quiet, peaceful neighborhood.

He wasn't going to back down. I knew it, and he knew it. Jeremy had handed him the keys to my life, and Peter was a man who took possession seriously.

"Well, too bad for you, Mr. CEO," I muttered to the empty kitchen, my stubborn resolve hardening into ice. "You might be a genius who completed a five-year program in two years, but you've never had to deal with me when I'm truly dug in."

I wasn't signing that contract. I wasn't downloading his tracking app, I wasn't giving up my late shifts at Finesse, and I sure as hell wasn't letting him background-check the sweet old ladies who hired me to do their makeup for church galas. He wanted a war of compliance? Fine. I would give him a masterclass in passive resistance.

I took another long sip of my water, staring at the empty house next door, entirely unaware that the thin, electric thread keeping us apart was already beginning to fray.