Semua Bab The Bodyguard’s Siren: Bab 41 - Bab 50

Dave doesn’t knock.That alone tells me everything I need to know.I’m standing in the sitting room off the east wing when I hear his shoes—expensive, sharp, echoing like he owns the place. This mansion. My house. The one I didn’t choose. The one that still smells faintly like a life I’m dismantling piece by piece.He breezes in with a familiar smirk, sunglasses still on despite the fact that we’re indoors. His phone is already in his hand, thumb scrolling, jaw tight with the kind of irritation he usually saves for assistants who get his coffee order wrong.“Well,” he says, finally glancing up at me like I’m late to my own meeting, “look who decided to rejoin the land of the living.”I don’t move. “Dave,” I say evenly.He sighs dramatically, like I’m exhausting him. “Cara, sweetheart, I gave you two weeks. Two. Weeks. You can’t disappear like this. The label’s been calling, your publicist is panicking, and don’t even get me started on the tour insurance people. It’s time to get back

Cara finally falls asleep just after midnight.It isn’t peaceful at least not really. Her breathing stutters a little, like her body hasn’t decided yet whether it’s safe to let go. One hand is fisted in my shirt, fingers curled tight like if she loosens them, I might disappear.I don’t move.I lie there, rigid and awake, counting each rise and fall of her chest until my own heartbeat starts to hurt. When I’m sure she’s fully under, I carefully ease her hand from my shirt and slide out of bed. The room feels wrong without her warmth pressed into my side.I stand there for a second, staring at the bed, at her face softened by sleep. She looks younger like this. Smaller. Vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with strength and everything to do with trust.I fucked up.The thought lands heavy and immovable in my chest.I should have followed her into the bathroom. I should have noticed sooner.I should have thrown those pills away months ago.I know better.I know her better.I dress q

The house is too quiet for how loud the world outside is.I can hear it even through the thick walls, the distant whir of engines, the occasional shout that doesn’t quite make out as words, the low, restless hum of people waiting for something to happen. Cameras. Lenses. Strangers parked at the gates like patience is a job they’re paid for.We don’t go anywhere. Instead, I make lunch.It’s nothing impressive. Pasta. Olive oil. Garlic. Whatever I can put together without thinking too hard. The kind of food you eat because you need to, not because you’re celebrating.Cara came home a few minutes ago. She went upstairs to change and now I can hear her coming back down. When she enters the kitchen I notice immediately that she looks tired. Not wrecked—just wrung out. Like someone who did hard work and hasn’t decided yet how to feel about it.She’s changed clothes, traded the hoodie for a soft sweater, and her hair is pulled back loosely. She pads into the kitchen barefoot and leans agains

I know something is wrong before he ever says a word. Before he pulls away from my touch, or he starts answering in half sentences, or his smile turns into something practiced instead of real. It’s the way the air feels when Giovanni walks into a room. The air is tighter, like it’s bracing. Like something sharp is moving just beneath the surface and if I reach for it, I’ll cut myself.He comes back quieter than he left. Not physically. He’s still here, still solid, still hovering in doorways like he belongs there, but emotionally, it’s like he’s dimmed the lights inside himself.I notice it in the small ways first. He doesn’t sit as close to me on the couch, he doesn’t tease me when I steal his coffee, and he seems mentally checked out. Like he’s measuring distance. I try not to panic. I tell myself I’m projecting. That not every shift means abandonment. That people are allowed to have bad days without it being about me but my body doesn’t listen to logic.My chest tightens anyway. B

I stare at the wall across from us, because if I look at her while I say this, I might stop myself. I might soften it. Lie by omission. Dress it up in language that makes it easier to swallow. She doesn’t deserve that. Neither of us does.“You’re not wrong,” I say finally.My voice sounds steadier than I feel. Years of practice will do that to you it teaches you how to keep your tone level while everything inside fractures.“What you read… it wasn’t about security work. Not really.”Her fingers tighten around mine, just a fraction.I take a breath. Then another.“There’s a reason the arrests don’t line up cleanly,” I continue. “A reason charges disappear. A reason nobody ever seems to talk.”She doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t flinch. That makes it harder.“I wasn’t just a bodyguard,” I say. “Not back then.”I turn my hand so my palm faces up, the bandage stark against my skin. Proof. Evidence. A life lived with consequences.“I worked for people who didn’t call themselves criminals,” I