The CEO And Her Bodyguard

Chapter 11: The Predator in the Front Row

Rebekkah's POV.

The red light on the main camera started blinking, a tiny glowing eye that felt like a sniper’s dot aimed right at my forehead. The heat from the stage lamps was direct and hot, making the sweat prickle at the back of my neck. I could hear the sea of reporters breathing, their notebooks open, their cameras ready to capture every flinch.

Michael stepped up to the microphone first. He looked perfect. His hair was back, his suit was crisp, and he had that billion-dollar smile that made people trust him with their life savings. He reached out and squeezed my shoulder. His grip was tight, his fingers digging into the bone through my blazer. It was a warning. He wanted me to play the part.

"Thank you all for coming on such short notice," Michael said, his voice booming through the speakers with a practiced ease. "The events of last night were a tragedy, a cowardly attack on one of this city’s most bright lights. But Isabella is a warrior. She’s not just the face of this merger; she’s the heart of it. We won't let terror dictate our business or our future."

The room erupted into a fresh wave of applause. I felt the bile rising in my throat. I wasn't a heart. I wasn't a warrior. I was a woman who had spent the last hour trying to forget the sound of a gun being c****d in the dark.

I looked away from the cameras, my eyes searching for the only person who actually knew what I was feeling. I found him near the heavy exit doors. Derek didn't have a microphone. He didn't have a spotlight. He was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes moving over the crowd like a hawk. He wasn't watching the show. He was watching the people.

Our eyes met for a heartbeat. Derek didn't smile, and he didn't offer a nod of comfort. He just tilted his head an inch to the left. Focus, he was telling me. Stay alert.

"Isabella," Michael whispered, nudging me toward the mic. "Tell them about the resilience of the Grant family."

I stepped forward, my legs feeling like they belonged to a puppet. The pearls around my neck felt light, just like Derek said they would, but the air in the room was getting thin. I looked out at the front row of reporters. They were lean and hungry, waiting for me to cry so they could get the shot that would sell a million papers.

"I... I want to thank the police," I started, my voice sounding thin and strange to my own ears. "And our security team. Without them, I wouldn't be standing here."

"Specifics, Ms. Grant!" a reporter from the back shouted. "How did you get out of the villa? Was there a breach in the perimeter?"

Michael started to lean in, ready to take the question for me, but I felt a sudden spark of heat in my chest. I didn't want him to speak for me. Not anymore.

"The perimeter didn't matter," I said, my voice getting a bit stronger. I looked right into the camera lens. "When the lights went out, it wasn't a security system that saved me. It was a man who stayed when everyone else ran. It was someone who put his body between me and a bullet while the world was falling apart."

I saw Michael’s smile falter. His eyes turned hard, a flash of pure anger darting across his face before he masked it again for the cameras. He didn't like the credit going to the "help."

I scanned the room, my heart starting to race again. I was looking for anything out of place. Derek’s training was screaming in my head. Check the exits. Check the hands. Then I saw him.

He was leaning against a pillar in the third row, partially hidden by a group of photographers. He wasn't wearing a press badge. He wasn't holding a phone. He was wearing a dark, heavy coat that looked too warm for the room. He had a scarred eyebrow and a look in his eyes that I’d seen in a dream...no, a nightmare.

He was one of the men from the hallway.

The man didn't move. He didn't reach for a weapon. He just looked at me and let out a slow, hollow smile. It was a message. We can get to you anywhere.

My voice died in my throat. The room started to spin. The flashes from the cameras turned into white bursts of light that felt like explosions. I gripped the edge of the wooden podium, my knuckles turning white.

"Isabella?" Michael asked, his voice low and sharp. "Finish the statement."

I couldn't breathe. I looked back at Derek. He saw it instantly. He didn't need me to point. He followed my gaze to the pillar, and I saw his entire body change. He went from a guard to a predator in a split second. His hand went to the inside of his jacket, and he started moving through the shadows at the edge of the room, silent as a ghost.

"I... I have to go," I whispered.

"Isabella, stay put," Michael hissed, grabbing my arm. He turned to the crowd, his face a mask of fake concern. "I'm sorry, everyone. The trauma is still very fresh. We're going to wrap this up."

Michael tried to pull me toward the back of the stage, but I wasn't looking at him. I was watching Derek. He was closing the distance between him and the man with the scarred eyebrow. The man saw Derek coming. He didn't panic. He just winked at me, turned on his heel, and slipped through the side doors leading to the service stairs.

Derek didn't wait. He bolted after him, disappearing into the dark hallway.

"Michael, he's here," I said, my voice shaking as I finally found my breath. "The man from the villa. He was right there."

"You're seeing things," Michael snapped, pulling me into the wings of the stage where the cameras couldn't see us. He shook me once, his eyes full of fire. "You just ruined the biggest PR moment of the year because you're having a panic attack. There is no one here, Isabella. It's the most secure building in Manhattan."

"I'm telling you he was there!" I yelled, shoving his hands off me.

The staff and the board members were staring at us, but I didn't care. I looked at the door Derek had gone through. The silence coming from that hallway was more terrifying than the noise of the crowd.

Michael straightened his tie, looking at me with pure disgust. "Go to my office. Sit down. Don't speak to anyone until I get there. We have a lot of damage control to do."

I didn't answer him. I walked toward the back elevators, my mind screaming. I wasn't going to his office to hide. I was done being the girl who waited for the lights to come back on.

As I reached the elevator, the doors opened, and Derek stepped out. He was breathing hard, his suit jacket slightly torn at the shoulder. His face was set in a hard, angry line.

"Did you get him?" I asked, rushing toward him.

Derek looked at me, and for a second, I saw a flash of real pain in his eyes. He shook his head. "He had a bike waiting in the alley. He’s gone."

He stepped closer to me, ignoring the board members and the assistants scurrying around us. He put a hand on the wall next to my head, leaning in so only I could hear him.

"He didn't come here to kill you tonight, Isabella," Derek whispered, his voice like cold gravel. "He came here to show me that I can't protect you in a room full of people. He came here to show me that your fiancé is a fool."

I looked over at Michael, who was currently laughing with a reporter, acting like nothing had happened. The contrast was a physical ache in my chest.

"What do we do now?" I asked.

Derek straightened his jacket, his eyes turning back to stone. "Now, we stop playing by Michael's rules. Get in the elevator. We're leaving."

"Michael said..."

"I don't care what he said," Derek interrupted, his voice leaving no room for argument. "He thinks this is a business deal. I know it's a hunt. And I'm not letting the prey stay in a glass house."

I stepped into the elevator, and Derek followed. As the doors closed, I saw Michael looking at us, his face twisting in a look of pure betrayal.

The war wasn't just at the villa anymore. It was in my office, in my city, and in the heart of the man I was supposed to marry. But as I looked at Derek’s bruised knuckles, I realized I wasn't afraid of the war. I was afraid of the day Derek stopped fighting it for me.