On the day of the charity gala, I wake up feeling gross. I sit up slowly, rubbing my thudding head. My sheets are soaked and twisted around me, and my blood is fizzing with adrenaline.
I had another nightmare. It’s already fading from my mind, but they’re always the same: a tall, faceless, bone-white figure chasing me down a maze of endless corridors. No matter how fast I run or which direction I take, he’s always right on my heels. Breathing down my neck.
I sigh, forcing myself out of bed and opening the curtains. Bright sunlight streams into my bedroom, hurting my eyes. I put my cheek against the cool windowpane, looking down at the street outside. It’s an ordinary summer day in London. The sky is cloudless and blue. Trees ruffle in the breeze. I watch a bird hop onto a nearby streetlight, warbling.
I’m too exhausted to enjoy any of it.
I know I should go for a jog, but I can’t stand the thought of it. Just like I can’t stand the thought of eating breakfast, or working, or showering. My mental health has been steadily nose-diving since the break-in, and it’s getting harder and harder to cope with. I feel like I’m losing my mind.
I sigh, dragging myself to the wardrobe to shimmy into a bikini and grab a cover-up. Some fresh air and sunshine is better than hibernating in my bed feeling sorry for myself. As I step out into the hallway, I silently pray that I won’t bump into any of the men on my way to the pool.
I can barely look at them anymore. On top of my weird foursome fantasy, ever since Matt walked in on me jacking off, my brain has developed an incredibly stupid, ill-advised, nonsensical crush on the man. When he was helping Michel at my fitting, gently touching me all over, it was all I could do not to moan out loud. I spent the entire car ride home in damp underwear.
Then, when I did arrive back home, I was greeted by Glen and Kenta. Who I swear get more attractive every day.
I don’t know if the stress of my potential stalker has driven me to the brink, but I’ve decided it’s probably safer that I just stay out of the guys’ ways as much as possible. Which is difficult, when they’re literally hired to watch me 24-7.
Luckily, when I step into the kitchen, it’s blissfully empty. I stumble over to the coffeemaker and start brewing up a cup. Just as the machine starts to steam, I spot movement outside the glass patio doors. I look up to see Matt swimming lengths in my pool.
The pool is my pride and joy: almost full-sized, lined with turquoise tiles inlaid with little blue glass gems. It’s set in a mosaic patio surrounded with lush greenery, overlooked by a couple of sun loungers. I watch Matt’s muscled body effortlessly cutting through the water, barely making a splash, then decide to pour another cup of coffee. Using my tablet as a tray, I carry them both out onto the patio.
Matt notices me and swims over, straightening. His whole body shines slick and wet under the sun. I do not look at the water dripping through his hair and down the hard, rigid lines of his abs.
“Problem?” He asks as I approach.
I shake my head. “I saw you out here and thought you might want a coffee. I don’t know how you take it.” I put the mug on the edge of the pool.
He looks at it warily. “Black, without cyanide, if possible.”
“Are you accusing me of poisoning you?”
“Wouldn’t put it past you, princess.”
“Well, why don’t you use your incredible observational skills to find out?”
Narrowing his eyes, Matt picks up the mug and takes a tentative sip. I watch his throat move as he swallows. “It’s good,” he says, his voice deeper than usual. “Thank you.”
I nod and head to a nearby sun lounger, setting down my drink and tablet.
“You’re not swimming?” He asks behind me. “I can get out if you want to do some lengths.”
I give the pool a longing look. The water ripples, reflecting shimmers of light onto the high garden walls. “Can’t. Not before events. Chlorine might damage my hair.”
“God forbid,” he drawls.
I stretch out on the lounger. “You can keep going. I don’t mind.”
He nods, taking a couple more gulps of hot coffee, then dives back into the cold water. I settle back and turn on my tablet, flicking through some emails. It’s surprisingly hard to concentrate when a man with about ten abs is wet and half-naked in front of you. More than once, I find my eyes flicking up to track Matt as he swims. The sun beats down over me, soaking into my skin as I watch the blue water roll off his tanned, muscled body. Every five lengths, he stops and turns to check in on me.
All of the guys do this. Check on me. When I’m in the gym, Kenta will pop his head in every half an hour. The other night, I fell asleep in the bath and woke up to a worried-sounding Glen tapping at the bathroom door. When I hired the Angels, I really wasn’t prepared for just how protective they were going to be. It’s definitely contributing to my impending breakdown.
As I watch, Matt finishes his lap. His eyes flick back to me, and our gazes meet. His full lips part. He gives me a little nod and dips below the water again.
I turn back to my tablet, my heart thudding uncomfortably, and stare blankly at my emails. I can’t remember what I was doing. On a whim, I type SAS military into Google, clicking the first result that comes up.
I skim the information. It’s impressive stuff. Apparently, the SAS is one of the most elite units in the UK military. A lot of their actions are classified, but they seem pretty high up in the food chain. As I scroll down the page, one particular word stands out to me.
Torture.
I back up, rereading the paragraph.
One facet of the gruelling SAS recruitment process is said to be Resistance to Interrogation training, during which applicants are subjected to torture methods commonly used upon British prisoners of war.
My mouth falls open. Horror floods through me as I start to connect the dots.
There’s a splash, and I look up to see Matt jumping right out of the pool and jogging over. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He demands. “Did X contact you?”
“What? No, I’m looking up the SAS.” I stare up at him. “You did torture training?”
He blinks, shaking droplets of water out of his hair. “Torture… resistance to interrogation, yeah.”
“They…” I look back at the website. “They did these things to you? Just so you could qualify for a job?” My eyes skip over the words. Humiliation. Starvation. Sleep deprivation. Hooding.
He glances at the paragraph I have highlighted, then lets his eyes flick away again. “Among others.”
“But that’s barbaric!”
“It’s necessary,” he snaps. “Soldiers need to be trained to face what they’re actually fighting. That’s the only way they’ll survive.”
“And was it?” I ask. “Necessary?”
A horrible, bitter feeling is building in my stomach. I’ve wondered about Glen’s face for a while now. There’s something strange about his scar. He doesn’t look like he was stabbed or burned or shot; he looks like he’s been purposefully carved up.
“Glen’s scars,” I say. “Is that how he got them? Why did you guys get discharged from the army, anyway?”
I know immediately that I’ve crossed a line. Emotions flicker across Matt’s face, too fast for me to read. He snatches up my tablet, powering it down.
“Don’t ask any more,” he barks, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “Don’t look this shit up. These are men’s lives, not entertainment for you to flick through while you’re getting a fucking suntan.” He dumps the tablet back on my lounger, scowling. I wince internally. Shit.
I start to apologise, but I’m interrupted by a buzzing noise from the poolside. Kenta’s staticky voice rings out through the patio. “Carter.”
Eyes not leaving mine, Matt stoops and picks up the two-way radio he left by the pool’s edge, holding it to his mouth. “What.”
“A courier just delivered a package. Jack Ellis. He’s got a brown unmarked box, about 750 by 750. The service is called Jameson’s Delivery.”
“Courier still there?”
“Yes. He says the package is from the designer.”
“Hold him until I clear it.”
“Roger.”
Matt turns to me. “Are you expecting a delivery?”
I nod, pulling out my phone. “That will be my dress for this evening. Yeah, the tracker says it’s just arrived.” I show him my screen.
He nods. “Let the guy go, Kenta. When’s Glen coming in?”
“I’ll text him to come check it out.”
“Copy.” He puts down the radio. I stand, and he grabs my wrist. “Where are you going?”
“To check out the dress. I still need to pick out my makeup.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not touching an unmarked, couriered package until Glen comes in to clear it.”
“Why Glen?” I protest. “Why can’t you do it?”
“He was our dems specialist. Demolitions. He knows the most about things that explode.”
Nerves clutch at my stomach. “You think it will explode?”
“It’s not impossible.” He sits down on the lounger next to mine, picking up his towel. “Better safe than sorry.”
I nod numbly. We’re silent for a while, staring up at the still blue sky. Even though we’re not touching, I can feel his presence twenty centimetres away, like electricity prickling down one side of my body. I don’t know if it’s the sun or a blush warming my cheeks.
“You know,” he says, “from a security standpoint, going out tonight is a really bad idea. If you care that much about homeless kids, make a donation. A party won’t help them.”
“I have to go. I organised it.”
He blinks. “Wait. What?”
“I organised the event. It’s my charity.” He stares at me. I snort. “Sorry, isn’t that diva-ish enough? I can call you a pathetic asshole or something, if that would help. Wouldn’t want to get in the way of your terrible assumptions about me.” I stretch out my neck, rolling it from side to side. “What’s that about, anyway? Do you have a vendetta against all celebrities? Or have you just been keeping up with me in the tabloids?”
“All celebrities,” he grunts. I wait, but he doesn’t expand.
“… Why?”
“Bad experience.”
Ah, shit. I can only imagine what self-important idiots he’s had to work with before. I’ve met plenty of stars who let the fame get to their heads. “Fair.” I wiggle my toes, examining my pedicure. “I don’t trust famous people, either.”
“No?”
I nod. “So many people want to be in the industry. The ones who actually make it to the top are usually the most ruthless. They’ve had to step on a lot of people to get their spot.”
“You didn’t,” he counters. “You didn’t have to do anything to get famous. It landed in your lap.”
I narrow my eyes at him, and he shrugs. “I looked you up. You were scouted at a school talent show. Two months later, you were in LA, shooting what would become the most popular daytime television show since Friends. You didn’t have to fight for your fame, you just got lucky.”
“Yes,” I say softly, my lips twisting into a smile. “Of course. I was very, very lucky.”
Matt looks like he wants to say something else, but before he can, his radio crackles again.
“Glen’s here,” Kenta says. “Come to the kitchen, please.”
“News?”
“The Stalkers got back.” Even through the tinny speaker, his voice sounds grim.
“And?” Matt prompts, standing.
“It’s not good.”
My insides curl. Oh, God. What the Hell did they find?
Matt picks up his coffee and turns to me. “I’m gonna speak to Kenta. Do me a favour and stay out here until Glen clears the package. He’ll leave it outside your bedroom when it’s done.”
I nod numbly, laying back in the lounger as his footsteps disappear over the patio. My heart is pounding in my throat.
