Dangerously Yours

Chapter Four

Eight o'clock came and went while he sat in his penthouse, nursing a scotch and scrolling through his phone like he had all the time in the world.

Let her wait. Let her understand from the start that he didn't answer to schedules set by his parents.

By eight-fifteen, his phone buzzed.

“She's here," Marcus said over the phone. " And your mother is calling me every three minutes. Get down here.”

Raymond took his time finishing the drink.

At eight-twenty, he stepped into the elevator.

The lobby of his building was all glass and steel, designed to impress. Tonight it just felt like a cage. Marcus stood near the entrance, looking harassed. Next to him—

Raymond stopped.

The woman standing beside his assistant didn't look like a bodyguard. She looked like she'd walked off a magazine cover and decided to ruin someone's day for fun.

Tall. Maybe five-nine. Athletic build wrapped in black tactical pants and a fitted jacket that somehow looked both professional and dangerous. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, sharp cheekbones, and eyes the color of winter—pale green, cold, assessing.

She wasn't pretty. Pretty was too small a word.

She was the kind of beauty that made men stupid.

Raymond hated her guts immediately.

"Mr. Jules." Marcus looked relieved. "This is—"

"Veronica Ashford." She stepped forward, hand extended. Her voice was low, controlled. "Your new bodyguard."

Raymond stared at her hand like it might bite him.

She didn't lower it. Just waited, expression neutral, like she had all night.

He took it. Her grip was firm. Strong. She didn't try to prove anything with it, but she didn't soften it either.

"You're serious," Raymond said.

"About my job? Always." She released his hand, stepping back to a professional distance. "Your parents briefed me on the situation. Three attempts in two months, escalating in aggression. Today's shooter knew your schedule, your location, the building layout. This isn't random."

"I'm aware."

"Good. Then we won't waste time pretending you don't need protection."

Raymond felt his jaw tighten. "I don't remember asking for your assessment."

"You didn't. I'm giving it anyway." Her eyes never left his. "Someone wants you dead. They're organized, well-funded, and patient. That makes them dangerous. My job is to keep you alive long enough to figure out who they are."

"Your job," Raymond said slowly, "is whatever I decide it is."

Something flickered in her expression. Amusement, maybe. Or pity. Hard to tell.

"No," she said simply. "My job is to protect you. Whether you cooperate or not is up to you. But let's be clear—I don't work for you. I work for your safety and your parents."

Marcus made a small noise that might've been a cough or a prayer.

Raymond took a step closer. She didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just watched him with those cool green eyes like he was a problem she'd already solved.

"Let me guess," he said. "Former military? Special ops? You've got the whole stoic warrior thing down."

"Private sector," she corrected. "Nyx Operatives. Top of my class. Zero failed assignments." She tilted her head slightly. "You can read my file if you want. Your parents have a copy."

"I don't need to read anything," Raymond crossed his arms. "I need you to understand something. I don't do babysitters. I don't do shadows. And I definitely don't do—" he gestured vaguely at her, "—whatever this is supposed to be."

"This," Veronica said, voice flat, "is me standing between you and a bullet. Try to be grateful."

"Grateful," Raymond laughed. "You know what I'm grateful for? My freedom. My privacy. Things I had until about six hours ago."

"And you'll have them again," she said, unmoved. "Once the threat is neutralized. Until then, you're stuck with me."

"Lucky me."

"Lucky you," she agreed, no humor in it.

They stood there, locked in some kind of silent standoff. Marcus looked like he wanted to disappear into the marble floor.

Raymond noticed things he didn't want to notice. The way she stood—balanced, ready. The slight bulge under her jacket meant that she was armed. The way her eyes tracked movement in his peripheral vision, cataloging exits and threats without ever losing focus on him.

Professional. Competent. Infuriating.

"So what now?" Raymond asked, refusing to let her have such an effect on him. He should be the one pulling the reins, not her.

"You follow me around? Sleep outside my door like a guard dog?"

"I secured your apartment," Veronica replied calmly. "Check for vulnerabilities, establish protocols. Then we discuss your schedule for tomorrow."

"My schedule is none of your business."

"Your schedule is exactly my business." She pulled out a phone—sleek, black, probably encrypted six ways to Sunday. "You have a meeting at nine, lunch with a client at one, drinks at The Heights at seven. Correct?"

Raymond's irritation spiked. "How do you—"

"Your assistant sent it over." She glanced at Marcus, who suddenly found the ceiling fascinating. "The nine a.m. is fine. The lunch meeting needs a venue change—too many sight lines, not enough exits. And the drinks are canceled."

"Excuse me?"

"The Heights has a history of lax security and a rooftop access point that's been flagged in three separate incident reports." She said it like she was reading a grocery list. "We'll find somewhere else."

Raymond felt heat crawl up his neck. "I'm not canceling my plans because you don't like the venue."

"You're not canceling. I am." Her expression didn't change. "That's how this works. I assess risks. You listen. Everyone lives."

"Or," Raymond said, voice dropping, "I fire you right now and find someone who understands the word 'reasonable.'"

"Go ahead." Veronica's smile was sharp enough to cut. "I'm sure your mother will take that well."

Checkmate.

Raymond wanted to throw something. Preferably at her.

Marcus cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should, uh, move this upstairs? The lobby is a bit... exposed."

Veronica nodded. "Agreed. Mr. Jules, after you, please."

"Don't call me that," Raymond snapped.

"What should I call you?"

"Nothing. Preferably."

“Which of them? Nothing or preferably?” She asked innocently.

Marcus gave a low laugh this time, earning a glare from Raymond.

"We can stand here arguing or you can show me your apartment so I can do my job. Your choice." She continued, gesturing towards the elevator.

Raymond turned without answering, walking toward the elevator. He heard her footsteps behind him—quiet, measured, close enough to react if something happened.

The elevator doors closed, sealing them in together.

Silence stretched between them like a live wire.

Raymond watched her reflection in the mirrored walls. She wasn't looking at him. She was watching the floor numbers, the doors, the space around them like threats might materialize from thin air.

"You always this tense?" he asked.

"You always this difficult?"

"I'm not difficult. I just don't like strangers invading my life."

"Then you should've made better enemies." She glanced at him, brief and dismissive. "People who want you dead tend to complicate things."

"Wow. You're just full of wisdom."

"Part of the service."

The elevator chimed. Forty-fifth floor. His floor.

The doors opened into his private hallway—tasteful, expensive, quiet. Veronica stepped out first, scanning the space with quick efficiency before nodding him forward.

Like he needed permission to enter his own home.

Raymond unlocked the door, shouldering it open. "Welcome to the invasion of privacy. Try not to touch anything."

Veronica walked past him into the penthouse, and he hated how naturally she moved through his space—like she belonged there, like she'd already mapped every corner in her head.

His apartment was all floor-to-ceiling windows, modern furniture, carefully curated art. The kind of place designed to impress women who wouldn't remember it in the morning.

She didn't look impressed.

"Windows are a problem," she said immediately, moving toward them. "No curtains, no tint, full visibility from at least three surrounding buildings." She pulled out her phone, taking notes or photos—he couldn't tell. "We'll need blackout installations by tomorrow."

"Absolutely not."

"Non-negotiable."

"This is my apartment—"

"Which currently has the defensive capabilities of a fishbowl." She turned to face him.

"Someone shot at you through reinforced glass this afternoon. These windows are substandard. You want to wait and see if they try again?"

Raymond's hands curled into fists. "You've been here three minutes."

"And I've already found six security vulnerabilities." She moved past him toward the bedrooms. "I'll need access to every room. Including yours."

"No."

She stopped, turning back. "Excuse me?"

"My bedroom is off-limits."

Veronica's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes sharpened. "Let me be very clear, Mr. Jules. I don't care about your privacy. I don't care about your comfort. I care about keeping you alive. If that means searching your bedroom, your closets, your bathroom—wherever someone might hide or breach—then that's what I'm doing. You can stand there looking offended, or you can accept reality. Either way, I'm doing my job."

They stared at each other.

Raymond felt something shift in the air between them—tension, anger, something else he didn't want to name.

"You're going to be a nightmare," he said finally.

"Only if you make me one." She tilted her head slightly. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. But we're doing it."

Raymond laughed, sharp and humorless. "Has anyone ever told you're controlling?"

"Frequently." Veronica's smile was ice. "Has anyone ever told you're spoiled?"

"Frequently."

"Then we understand each other."

She turned and walked toward his bedroom without waiting for permission.

Raymond stood there, trapped in his own apartment, watching a stranger dismantle his life one security protocol at a time.

This was going to be hell.

And the worst part?

She knew it.