"He's been inside," she says quietly. "Multiple times. My security team sweeps for cameras every week, but he keeps finding new ways in. New ways to watch me."
"And last night?"
Her composure finally cracks, and I see the terrified woman beneath the celebrity facade. "Last night he left me a message. Written in blood on my bedroom mirror. Just one word."
"Soon."
She nods, wrapping her arms around herself like she's trying to hold herself together. "I can't stay here, Mr. McKenna. I can't keep living like this, waiting for him to decide he's tired of watching and ready to take action."
"You won't have to." The words come out harder than I intend, edged with a promise of violence that surprises me. "That's why I'm here."
She looks up at me, and something passes between us. Some recognition, some spark of connection that feels sickening like her green eyes see straight into my soul.
"Frank said you could make me disappear."
"I can."
"For how long?"
"As long as it takes."
She studies my face, looking for something. Reassurance, maybe, or just the confidence that I can do what I'm promising. Whatever she sees must satisfy her because she nods once.
"Where will you take me?"
"Somewhere he'll never think to look. Somewhere I can control every variable, every threat, every person who gets within a mile of you."
"That sounds like prison."
"It sounds like staying alive."
The bluntness of my words makes her flinch, but she doesn't argue. She knows as well as I do that her stalker is escalating, that the message on her mirror was a promise, not a threat.
Soon. Soon he's going to stop watching and start taking.
Unless I stop him first.
"How long do I have to pack?" she asks.
"Twenty minutes. One bag. Only the essentials."
"That's not very long."
"Ms. Wilde, in twenty minutes, you're going to disappear off the face of the earth.
Your stalker, the media, everyone who thinks they know where you are.
They're all going to lose you completely.
" I lean forward, making sure she understands how serious this is.
"Twenty minutes is more than most people get. "
She nods and stands, moving toward the stairs with the kind of grace that comes from years of being watched, being photographed, being judged on every movement.
"Mr. McKenna?" She pauses at the bottom of the staircase, looking back at me.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For coming. For taking this job. I know celebrity clients aren't your usual thing."
"How do you know what my usual thing is?"
She smiles, and for the first time since I walked in here, it reaches her eyes. "Let's just say I've done my research."
Then she's gone, disappearing upstairs to pack for a journey that's going to take her further from her glittering world than she's ever been.
And I'm left standing in her living room, staring out at the city below, trying to ignore the voice in my head that's telling me this job is different.
That Nova Wilde is different.
That once I get her to Montana, once I have her under my protection on my mountain, I'm never going to want to let her go.
I take the opportunity to check the perimeter while she packs. This place is a security nightmare. Too many windows, too many access points, not enough cover. The walls and cameras might keep out casual intruders, but someone with determination and patience? They'd find a way in.
Someone already has.
I check my watch. Ten minutes left. I need to get her out of here before the morning staff arrives, before anyone can report her movements. The fewer people who know she's gone, the better chance we have of disappearing completely.
My burner phone vibrates in my pocket. A text from Frank.
Arrangements complete. Plane is fueled and waiting. Safe house prepped. Do NOT talk to the local security team. Compromised.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Compromised. Someone on her security detail is feeding information to the stalker. That explains how he's been getting inside, how he's known her movements, how he's stayed one step ahead.
I head back inside, taking the stairs two at a time. I need to get her out. Now.
I find her in a bedroom that's larger than most apartments, sitting on the edge of a massive bed, staring at a small framed photo in her hands. A black duffel bag sits packed and ready at her feet.
"We need to leave." My voice is harder than I intended, but the urgency is real. "Your security team is compromised."
Her head snaps up, eyes wide. "What? How do you know?"
"Frank just confirmed it. Someone's been feeding information to your stalker. That's how he's been getting inside, how he's known your schedule."
She pales, and I watch the realization wash over her. "Someone I trust has been helping him."
"Yes."
She sets the photo down on the bedside table with deliberate care. It's a picture of her with an older woman. Mother, maybe.
"Can I at least say goodbye?" Her voice is small, and it does something to me I can't explain. Something protective and fierce that has nothing to do with the job.
"To who?"
"My assistant. Jenna. She's been with me for five years. She's like family."
I shake my head. "No one can know you're gone until we're well away. Not even family."
She starts to protest, then stops, nodding once. "You're right. Of course you're right."
"We'll find a way to let her know you're safe once we're secure."
That seems to help. She picks up her bag and moves toward me with determination in every step. "Let's go, then. I'm ready."
As she passes me in the doorway, I catch her scent. Something expensive, and subtle that reminds me of mountains after rainfall. Clean and wild and impossibly complex.
It almost makes me miss the sound.
Almost.
But ten years of training doesn't disappear overnight, and my body is moving before my brain fully registers what I've heard. The faint click of a door closing somewhere in the house.
Someone is inside.
I grab Nova's arm, pulling her behind me, my other hand already reaching for the weapon holstered at my back.
"What is it?" she whispers, and I feel her body tense as she reads the change in mine.
"Someone's in the house." I keep my voice low, barely audible. "Stay behind me. Do exactly what I say, when I say it."
She nods, and I'm impressed by the way she immediately falls into position behind me, one hand gripping the back of my jacket, her movements becoming as silent as my own.
Maybe she won't be as much trouble as I thought.
We move through the hallway toward the back stairs, avoiding the main staircase that would leave us exposed. Every sense is hyperalert. The house is too quiet, too still.
We reach the top of the service stairs, and I pause, listening. Nothing.
I motion for her to stay put and take three silent steps down, just enough to see around the corner.
That's when I spot him. A figure in black, moving through the kitchen with the confident ease of someone who's been here before. Someone who knows the layout. He's wearing a ski mask and gloves, and there's something in his hand that glints in the early morning light.
A knife.
I back up silently, returning to Nova. Her eyes are wide, but there's no panic in them. Just a grim determination that I respect.
"There's a man in your kitchen," I whisper against her ear, close enough that my lips brush her skin. "Armed. We need another way out."
"There's a private elevator in my closet," she whispers back. "It goes down to the garage."
Of course, she has a private elevator in her closet. Because this is Los Angeles, and nothing here makes sense.
"Show me."
We retrace our steps to her bedroom, moving like shadows. She leads me through a closet that's bigger than some apartments I've had, to a discreet panel that slides open at her touch.
The elevator is small, meant for one person, maybe two if they're standing very close. Which we are.
The doors slide closed with us pressed together in a space the size of a phone booth. Her body is warm against mine, her breath coming in short, controlled bursts that tell me she's fighting to stay calm.
"Your hands are steady," I observe quietly.
"I've had a lot of practice being scared."
The simple honesty of her words catches me off guard. I want to ask her what she means, what she's been through that's taught her to function through fear. But there's no time.
The elevator opens directly into a garage that houses three vehicles. A sleek sports car, an SUV with blacked-out windows, and a nondescript sedan that I'm guessing is for when she doesn't want to be noticed.
"The sedan," I say. "Keys?"
She pulls them from her pocket and hands them over without question.
"Stay behind me until I clear the area."
I move through the garage carefully, checking for any sign that our visitor upstairs has friends waiting down here. It's clear.
I open the passenger door for her, scanning the area one more time as she slides in. Then I'm behind the wheel, starting the engine with practiced efficiency.
"Seatbelt," I tell her, and she complies immediately.
The garage door opens slowly, too slowly for my liking, but finally we're out, driving down the winding road that leads away from her house, away from the man with the knife, away from the life she's known.
"He was in my house," she says after we've been driving for several minutes. Her voice is remarkably steady, but I can hear the tremor underneath. "While I was packing. He was in my house."
"Yes."
"How did he know you were coming for me?"
That's the million-dollar question, isn't it? How did he know? And more importantly, what else does he know?
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "But we're going to find out."
I take a sharp turn, cutting through a residential neighborhood rather than heading for the main roads. Standard evasion protocols.
"Where are we going now?" she asks.
"Private airfield. Different from the one I arrived at. We're changing the plan."
"Why?"
"Because if he knew I was coming, he might know where we're headed. And I'm not taking that chance."
She falls silent, processing this. Then, "I thought I was going to die this morning."
The simple statement hits me in the chest. This woman has been living with death breathing down her neck for months, never knowing when the watching would end and the action would begin.
"Not while I'm with you," I tell her, and I'm surprised by the fierceness in my own voice. "That's not happening on my watch."
She looks over at me, studying my profile. "You say that like you mean it."
"I don't say things I don't mean."
"Even to scared pop stars who are paying you to protect them?"
"Especially to them." I confirm.
That draws a small smile from her, and it transforms her face. Makes her look younger, softer, more like the woman in the publicity photos and less like the haunted creature I met inside.
"I think I might actually believe you, Finn McKenna."
"Good. Because from now on, your life depends on trusting me completely."
We fall into silence as I navigate the Los Angeles streets, putting distance between us and her compromised home, her compromised security, and her compromised life.
In six hours, we'll be in Montana. My territory. My rules. And whoever is hunting Nova Wilde is going to learn very quickly that he's not the only predator in this game.