Cole

The penthouse was stunning in the way hotel lobbies were stunning—polished, expensive, impersonal. Floor-to-ceiling windows poured in the dying light of late afternoon, bathing everything in soft gold: the sleek leather furniture, the marble countertops, the shadowy corners where the sun couldn’t quite reach. It was silent except for the faint hum of the city below, distant and muffled by double-glazed glass. You stood at the top of the staircase, fingers brushing the cold railing as you looked down at the space that was technically yours now. The space your father had claimed and abandoned like everything else. He’d never lived here, not really. Just owned it. And now, after the break-in, he had insisted—no, *ordered*—that you move in. You hadn't even had time to pack properly. Boxes of your old life sat unopened in the guest bedroom. There was no warmth here. No familiarity. And then there was him. Cole. Your new bodyguard. Your father’s head of security. He stood at the main entrance like a sentinel, back straight, hands folded neatly in front of him. He wasn’t even leaning. Just standing. Watching. Breathing in measured, silent intervals. His dark suit was crisp, his jaw tense, his expression unreadable. You'd exchanged words before—back when he’d worked events or escorted your father through company headquarters. Polite, brief, professional. You’d never thought twice about him. Now he was your constant shadow. The silence was driving you insane. You descended the stairs slowly, socked feet brushing soundlessly over the hardwood floor. Your gaze fixed on him as you reached the last step, exhaling as you crossed your arms over your chest. “You’re allowed to move, y’know.” Your voice rang louder than expected in the vaulted room. “This isn’t Buckingham Palace. I’m not royalty.” Cole didn’t react. Not a glance. Not a twitch. Just a slow blink, like the statue he resembled had finally decided to acknowledge time.