The elevator ride up to my apartment felt longer than usual. Each passing floor carried the echo of Marco's words—That's not going to happen. I hated how they replayed in my head like a stubborn song I couldn't shake.
My hands trembled as I unlocked the door. The apartment smelled faintly of lavender, a scent I usually found comforting, but tonight it only felt foreign. I kicked off my heels, tossed my coat over the couch, and leaned against the wall, pressing my palms into my eyes.
My phone lit up with a text from Daniel.
Running late. Just got out of the meeting. You still at the office?
I stared at it, my mind racing. I could lie. I could tell him I was home and avoid the questions. But my fingers hesitated over the screen, because no matter what I said, he'd sense something was off. Daniel always did.
Home now. Just tired.
I hit send and tossed the phone aside, sinking into the couch. But rest wouldn't come. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flash of the gun and the way Marco had moved—fast, lethal, and calculated. And the look in his eyes afterward, when he'd checked me for injuries… not softness exactly, but something else. Something I didn't want to name.
The next morning, Daniel's knock on my door came earlier than expected. I was still in my robe, hair damp from the shower, when I opened it.
"Morning," he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "You left the office in a hurry last night."
"I finished the reports. Didn't see the point in staying."
His brow furrowed. "You look tired."
"I am tired."
Daniel's eyes lingered on my face a moment longer than necessary, like he was searching for cracks in my story. But he let it go. "That file I needed… I'll pick it up from the desk this morning."
I froze.
"The file?" I asked carefully.
"Yeah. The one I told you not to move. It's sensitive."
My stomach dropped. "Right. Of course."
But I knew the desk was empty. I had handed that file over to Marco without even checking what was inside.
I avoided Daniel for the rest of the day, ducking out for lunch and spending the afternoon buried in minor reports. By the time the clock struck six, I thought I was safe. I gathered my things, stepped out of the office—
And froze.
Marco was leaning against a black car parked across the street, sunglasses on despite the fading light. He pushed them down slightly when he saw me, revealing eyes that glinted with something between amusement and intent.
"What are you doing here?" I hissed as I crossed to him.
"Making sure you don't get yourself killed."
"I wasn't planning on it."
"Neither were the men last night," he said dryly. "And yet…"
I rolled my eyes. "Go home, Marco."
"I could say the same to you." He opened the passenger door. "Get in."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Then we'll talk here, where Daniel's office windows have a perfect view of us."
My jaw tightened. He was impossible. Against my better judgment, I slid into the car, slamming the door.
The ride was quiet for several minutes. I kept my gaze fixed out the window, refusing to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.
"That file," he said finally, "wasn't for Daniel."
My head snapped around. "What?"
"It was bait. Something my… competitors wanted badly enough to set up that meeting."
"And you used me to deliver it."
"You were the only one who could walk in and out without suspicion."
I laughed bitterly. "Do you hear yourself? That's not a compliment."
"I'm not here to compliment you, Isabella. I'm here to tell you that because you delivered it, your name is now circulating in circles you don't want to be in."
My stomach twisted. "You mean—"
"I mean," he cut in, "someone might try to use you to get to me. And I don't trust anyone else to keep you alive."
I hated that my pulse quickened—not out of fear, but because some traitorous part of me believed him.
The rest of the evening unfolded in a haze of sharp words, tighter silences, and subtle shifts in power. Marco's "protection" came with rules—where I could go, who I could talk to, and even what time I could leave work. It felt like a cage, but one that also, infuriatingly, made me feel shielded.
And then, just when I thought I could push him away again, the first warning came.
A single red rose, left at my apartment door. No note.
Marco's reaction was immediate—calm on the surface, but his knuckles whitened around the stem as he tossed it into the trash. "Pack a bag," he said. "You're staying with me."
That night, I found myself in his penthouse for the second time.