Page 107 of Lady and the Hitman

It was bold of him to even ask. We’d broken up. Trevor, with his soft voice and safer choices. Trevor, who flinched at confrontation and recoiled from my ambition. It was laughable, really—how someone so quick to fold now wanted to play the protector.

He was the kind of man who whispered concerns. Ronan didn’t whisper anything.

“You sure about that?”

I laughed lightly—too lightly. “It’s called journalism, Trevor. I wrote a reaction piece. That’s all.”

Another pause.

“I just want you to be careful.”

I bit down on a sigh. “You don’t get to warn me, Trevor. Not anymore.”

“Still,” he said. “I’ve heard things.”

“From who?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

I opened the fridge and stared blankly inside, the cold air brushing my skin. “You didn’t call to talk about the article. What do you really want?”

But he didn’t get a chance to answer.

Because that’s when I saw it.

Out the window, parked across the street, half-shadowed beneath the bloom-heavy crepe myrtle?—

A sleek black Maserati. Low. Lethal. The same one I’d seen garaged at Ronan’s house, tucked behind polished concrete and moody uplighting like some kind of beast asleep in its den.

My breath caught.

He wasn’t inside the car. He was leaning against it, arms crossed, wearing black slacks and a white shirt that looked like it had been poured over his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up. His expression unreadable.

He was watching my front door.

Watching me.

“Zara?” Trevor’s voice crackled in my ear.

I didn’t answer. I stepped back from the fridge and crossed to the front window. Pulled the curtain slightly to the side.

Ronan didn’t move.

But his eyes found mine.

And my stomach dropped.

“I have to go,” I said into the phone.

“Wait—”

I hung up.

A moment later, my phone buzzed again.

This time it was a text.

Come outside.