Dangerously Yours

Chapter Two

The conference room on the forty-second floor smelled like leather, money, and the kind of filtered air that never carried real life in it. Raymond sat at the head of the long table, ankle resting over his knee, thumbing through emails while the fifth candidate of the morning talked him into a coma.

"And in my previous position with the Kardashian security detail—"

"Next," Raymond said, eyes still on his phone.

The man stopped mid-sentence. "Sorry... what?"

"Next." Raymond finally looked up, expression blank. "Thanks for your time."

"But I haven't even explained—"

"You walked in here hoping I'd be impressed you guarded celebrities." Raymond leaned back, tired already. "I'm not. I need someone who'll stay invisible and let me breathe. You won't."

The man's face went a shade of blotchy red.

Marcus, standing like a permanent shadow behind Raymond's chair, stepped forward with weary grace. "Thank you, Mr. Kowalski. We'll be in touch."

The man left with footsteps that sounded like threats.

"That's the fifth one you've dismissed in under three minutes," Marcus muttered. "Your mother specifically said—"

"I am taking this seriously." Raymond checked his watch. "I'm just not stupid enough to hire a human wall made of protein powder."

"How many are left?"

"Three. God help me."

"Raymond—someone shot at your car last month."

"Someone shot *near* my car." Raymond interjected, walked to the window Manhattan glittering beneath him like a city that belonged to him by right. "It's business politics. Some i***t hoping to scare us. Happens all the time."

Marcus didn't look convinced. He rarely did.

The sixth candidate came in and left with the same defeated expression. Too rigid, too robotic. The seventh tried bonding over golf.

"I don't golf," Raymond lied.

Marcus made a sound that could have been pain or frustration. Hard to tell with him.

By the time the last candidate walked in, Raymond had mentally clocked out. The man looked harmless—early thirties, neat suit, moved like someone who'd never had to fight for anything. Raymond wrote him off instantly.

"Mr. Jules," the candidate said, offering a hand. "James Chen. Formerly with—"

The window exploded.

The sound wasn't even loud—not at first. Just a sharp crack, like a whip snapping across the room. Then glass rained inward, glittering like deadly snow.

Before Raymond's brain could catch up, Chen slammed into him, shoving them both to the floor behind the conference table. Raymond's shoulder hit hard enough to jolt the breath from his lungs.

"What the—"

"Stay down," Chen snapped.

A second shot shattered what remained of the window. Cracks shot across the glass like lightning.

Across the room, Marcus was on the floor, phone pressed to his ear. "Security! Forty-second floor! Shots fired!"

This couldn't be real. People didn't get shot at on weekday mornings in corporate boardrooms.

Chen positioned himself between Raymond and the open window, shoulders tight, body angled like a shield. His hand flew to his jacket on instinct—no weapon, of course. Interviews didn't allow them.

A third shot didn't come.

The silence after was louder than the gunfire.

"You hit?" Chen asked, still watching the ruined windows.

Raymond scanned himself. No blood. No holes. Just shaking hands he immediately shoved into fists. "I'm fine."

He didn't sound fine.

Security burst in moments later—three guards, guns drawn, moving like they'd rehearsed this exact moment. They swept the room, shouting into radios.

"All clear!"

"Shooter identified—"

"Possible rooftop—"

Chen helped Raymond stand. His hands were steady. Raymond hated that his weren't.

"You sure you're okay?" Chen asked again.

Raymond nodded, though his heart was fighting the idea.

Marcus ran to him, face pale. "Oh my God—Raymond, we need to get you somewhere safe—"

"I'm fine," Raymond said automatically.

"You're not fine," Marcus snapped. "Someone just tried to kill you."

The words didn't feel like they belonged in the same room as polished floors and leather chairs. But they hung there anyway.

Security. Building management. More guards. More shouting. It all blurred together.

Until—

"Raymond!"

His mother swept into the ruined conference room like a storm that had learned to walk in heels. Roberto came right behind her, face carved with a fear Raymond didn't know his father could feel.

"Are you hurt?" Amelia demanded, hands cupping his face, eyes darting over him like she could heal him by finding nothing wrong.

"I'm okay—"

"Don't lie to me!" Her voice cracked. Amelia never cracked. "This is the third attempt in two months. The third, Raymond."

"Amelia," Roberto said gently.

"No." She turned on him, fury covering fear like a mask. "No more excuses. No more pretending this is normal corporate sabotage."

Raymond tried to pull back. "Mom, seriously—"

"You're getting a bodyguard," she said, voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Today."

"I don't need—"

"Enough." His father's voice was low, final. "We've already hired someone. They arrive tonight."

Raymond stared at him. "Tonight? You can't be serious."

His mother's look said she absolutely was.

"If you argue," she said softly, dangerously, "I will lock you in this building with armed guards until you understand you are not invincible."

The room fell silent.

Security stared. Marcus stared. Chen stood quietly, expression unreadable.

Raymond looked at the shattered glass. The bullet marks gouged into the table. His mother's trembling hands. His father's tight jaw.

And something inside him cracked.

"Fine," he said. "I'll take the bodyguard."

"Good." His mother turned, heels crunching on broken glass. "They'll be here by eight."

Roberto paused long enough to put a hand on Raymond's shoulder. Solid. Heavy. Too real.

"We can't lose you," he said simply. Then he left.

One by one, the others filed out—security, Chen, Marcus.

Chen lingered for a moment. "They're right. Whoever did this? They knew what they were doing."

Raymond didn't answer.

The door closed behind him.

Silence settled again, thick and unfamiliar. Raymond stood alone in the wreckage—shattered glass glinting on the floor, the city pulsing beyond the broken window, his hands still shaking.

For the first time in his life, Raymond Jules felt vulnerable.

And he hated every second of it.