The Bodyguard’s Siren のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 61 - チャプター 70

The house is quiet in the way only new places are.No echoes of habit yet. No routines worn into the walls. Just the low hum of the refrigerator, the soft click of the door locking behind us, and the distant sound of traffic that reminds me the world still exists somewhere outside this bubble.Cara kicks off her shoes immediately, abandoning them by the door like she’s claiming territory.“I am never wearing heels again,” she announces. “If I ever suggest it, you’re legally allowed to stop me.”“I will stage an intervention,” I say, setting my keys down. “With charts.”She laughs, that easy sound that still feels like something I tricked the universe into giving me.We wander into the living room, lights off except for the faint glow from the kitchen. The furniture still smells new. Untouched. Like it’s waiting to learn us.Cara drops onto the couch and stretches, arms over her head, utterly unguarded. I stand there for a second too long, just watching her exist in my space like she’s

The next day I’m having a meeting with my producers at the studio. It always smells like coffee inside. Coffee that’s been reheated too many times and expensive equipment that’s trying to pretend it doesn’t have a soul.I’ve been here enough to know the rhythm of it—the way the air changes when people decide something is good versus when they decide it’s merely usable. The way silence can either be reverent or lethal. The way my own heartbeat sometimes feels louder than the monitors.Today, I’m pretending I don’t notice any of it.I have a notebook tucked under my arm, pages dog-eared and smudged with pencil. A guitar case in my other hand. My phone is in my back pocket, screen face-down because if I see one headline, one comment, one opinion about Giovanni, I’ll spend the next hour swallowing rage instead of singing.I’m here to work.That’s what I tell myself as I step into the live room and set my things down.“Okay,” Miles says through the talkback mic from the control room, voice

There are exactly three reasons I’m working at the bookstore more lately.One: Luca asked.Two: I needed something to do with my hands that didn’t involve clenching them every time Cara texted still at the studio.Three: Matteo is incapable of letting silence exist, which, against my will, has been good for me.I’m shelving books when Matteo slides into the aisle beside me like a man with no respect for personal space or indoor voices.“Okay,” he says. “Explain yourself.”I don’t look at him. “Good morning.”“You’ve been here three days in a row,” he continues. “That’s suspicious.”“I work here.”“You work here,” he repeats slowly, “but you usually work here while your extremely talented, extremely famous girlfriend is busy."I sigh and slide another book into place. “She’s working.”Matteo hums. “Working where.”“The studio.”His head snaps toward me so fast I worry about whiplash. “The studio."“Yes.”“With producers.”“Yes.”“Writing songs.”“Yes.”He stares at me like I’ve just to

The lights are blinding. They are hot, electric, pulsing like a heartbeat in time with the crowd’s roar.I used to fear this moment. Spotlights. Cameras. The world watching, waiting for me to crack but tonight feels different. I feel steady.The band starts the soft opening chords, piano, gentle percussion, a string swell underneath, and the entire arena quiets. Thousands of people, holding their breath with me.My song.His song.Seen.The single I wrote when my hands were still shaking, when nightmares clawed up my throat at night, when Giovanni sat beside me and held my world together with nothing but patience and those steady, warrior-hands. I step forward, into the light and my eyes go straight to him.He’s off to the side of the stage, where security stands—arms crossed, dark suit stretched across broad shoulders, jaw set in that protective line that makes me feel safe just looking at him but when I meet his eyes, he softens.The crowd disappears. The arena melts away. It’s onl

The bell above the bookstore door chimes for the third time in under five minutes, and I’m already reconsidering my life choices. Not because of the customers. Customers are fine. Harmless. Usually.It’s because Luca is shelving books with the kind of intensity usually reserved for planning crimes or executions, and I’m standing behind the counter holding a small velvet box in my jacket pocket like it might explode if I breathe wrong.I don’t even know why I brought it here. Actually, I do because if I don’t say it out loud to someone soon, I might lose my nerve.“Are you going to tell me why you’ve been staring into space like that for the last ten minutes,” Luca says without looking at me, “or should I start guessing?”“I was not staring into space.”He slides a paperback into place, taps it twice so it lines up perfectly with the others. “You tried to ring up a customer with a bookmark.”“That was a test.”“A test of what.”“Reflexes.”Luca finally looks at me. His expression is fl