Semua Bab The Bodyguard’s Siren: Bab 11 - Bab 20

The venue is small enough that I can hear the music vibrating through the walls. Cara’s voice climbs over the speakers. It’s smooth, sharp in all the right places, threaded with something raw that the crowd probably mistakes for artistry. They don’t know it’s pain. I do.I’ve spent every night this week shadowing her, watching the way she carries it like a second skin. She’s on stage doing a private set for some other musician’s daughter’s birthday. Four songs. Easy money, her manager said.The song shifts. The muffled applause swells, and Dave, her manager, scrolls his phone like he’s waiting for a pizza delivery.I step closer. “Hey. We need to talk.”Dave doesn’t look up. “If it’s about the lighting cues, that’s production, buddy.”“It’s not about lighting.”He sighs dramatically and pockets his phone. “What now?”I fold my arms. “You said you’d find her a therapist.”He blinks slowly. “Right. That.”“She still doesn’t have one.”Dave shrugs. “Yeah, I forgot to look. Been busy.”I

The rehearsal hall smells like stage lights, sweat, and the faint sweetness of hairspray. It’s the smell of my childhood, my career, and basically my entire stupid life.Tonight, though, it smells like something else, too.Hope because I’m sober and I’m killing it.I finish the bridge of the duet, drop into the final choreographed dip with that popstar heartthrob everyone drools over, and come up right on the beat—sharp, powerful, utterly controlled. The hall erupts. My vocal coach starts clapping. My choreographer screams.Someone yells, “THAT’S MY GIRL!”It hits me like a flood. I am amazing today, and every part of me knows it. When I glance toward the security barrier, Giovanni is there, watching me. He's not scanning exit points, tracking crowd movement, or checking his phone. He’s watching me.Like he forgot he was supposed to be a walking fortress and got punched in the face by awe instead.His expression is unreadable except for one thing: he almost looks… proud. My stomach fl

My apartment is dark when I unlock the door, and for once, I’m grateful. I need the quiet. I need the nothingness because my body is still wired from the club and from her. The heat of her body, the smell of her perfume, that soft laugh against my jaw when she thought I was teasing her and then I’d leaned in. I’d actually leaned in.I drop my keys on the counter and press both palms to the cool granite, breathing hard. I can still feel the ghost of her lips. And the sick, stupid part? I want it again. I want her. I scrub a hand down my face.“Fuck.”This wasn’t supposed to happen. She’s a client. A job. A paycheck. Except she’s not just that anymore, and I know it. I pull out my laptop, forcing myself to focus on something else her stalker. I start digging through old staff rosters. Tour teams. Choreographers. Producers.My eyes burn from the screen. My shoulders ache from tension but I keep going because last night I kissed Cara Sinclair in the middle of a goddamn club and instead of

The smell of fresh paint mixes with sawdust and espresso. It's the scent of Sofia’s little dream coming alive board by board. Sunlight slants through the front windows, bright enough to make the wet paint shine. Matteo is on a ladder with a roller, humming terribly off-key while I edge the bottom trim.The place feels warm. Peaceful. Honest. It’s the kind of place that never existed in my world until Sofia imagined it into being.“You look like shit,” Matteo announces cheerfully from above me.I grunt. “Thanks.”“No, really,” he continues, rolling a thick stripe of sage-green onto the wall. “You look like someone sucked the life out of you. Did you get any sleep? Did your hot popstar boss make you—”“Matteo,” I warn.“What?” He smirks. “I’m wondering if she made you work overtime.”I drop my paintbrush into the tray harder than necessary. He snorts.“Okay, fine. Tell me what the hell happened.”I don’t plan on telling him a damn thing. But the second he climbs down the ladder and look

Cara’s interview wraps late.The studio lights dim one by one, the cameras powered down, the host already swept off to another segment. Assistants buzz around collecting microphones, makeup brushes, cue cards. A janitor is sweeping glitter from the stage — leftover from the dramatic ending they insisted on for her big post–Album of the Year appearance.I stand near the exit door, hands behind my back, watching her talk to her publicist.She looks different tonight.Not like the girl who usually floats through a room with hurricane energy and bulletproof wit.Tonight she’s quieter. Softer. Like the shine from her award has settled into something more fragile inside her. She’s not defeated. It's like the tired has seeped into her bones, and not just the body. Her eyes are bright though. The kind of bright that only comes after someone has cracked open some door inside themselves and hasn’t decided whether the light is comforting or terrifying.When she finally breaks away from her peopl