My Bodyguard

Chapter 3: threats

The threats had started like whispers in the shadows—easy to dismiss but impossible to ignore. At first, it was the party incident. No one had been injured, yet the message was delivered loud and clear. Then, days later, a builder working on the final touches to her company’s new headquarters fell from the second floor. Both his hands and legs were broken, but that wasn’t what chilled Emma to the bone.

It was what he said afterward.

He had claimed he was alone on the floor when it happened, yet he distinctly felt a hand push him before the fall. His words echoed in her mind, hauntingly clear: *"A gift for your boss."*

Now, Emma sat alone in her glass-walled office, her posture rigid, her fingers clenched around the sleek armrests of her leather chair. She wore a tailored white blouse that tucked perfectly into high-waisted black slacks, completed by sharp stilettos that matched the polished professionalism she exuded. Her long golden-blonde hair was tied into a low ponytail, strands of it catching the sunlight streaming through the windows, glowing like molten gold.

Her mind raced with questions she couldn’t answer. The air felt stifling, the weight of the unseen threat pressing down on her like a phantom hand. She wanted to believe it was all a coincidence, a series of unrelated accidents. But deep down, she knew better.

The series of events were all direct to her in one way or another. And she knew who were the masterminds of the events, what she didn't know was that the worst was soon to happen.

---

Emma had just wrapped up a grueling meeting with investors, a confident smile masking the storm brewing within her. She stepped into the elevator, intending to retreat to her private floor for a brief moment of solitude. Her leather tote hung loosely over her shoulder, and her crisp blouse remained unblemished despite the long day. Clara, her ever-efficient assistant, had stayed behind in the conference room to finalize some details.

Clara had been particularly striking today. Her jet-black hair, slick and straight, fell to her shoulders with sharp precision, framing her angular face. She wore a fitted navy-blue dress that hugged her slender frame, paired with pointed black heels that gave her an air of quiet authority. Clara always looked impeccable, a reflection of her meticulous nature.

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft hiss, and for a brief moment, Emma felt a sense of calm.

That sense was short-lived.

Halfway to her floor, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. And then, without warning, the elevator jolted to a sudden stop. Emma lurched forward, barely catching herself against the metal railing. The lights went out entirely, plunging her into darkness.

Her breath caught in her throat.

The silence pressed in on her like a physical weight, broken only by the faint hum of machinery struggling to restart. She fumbled for the emergency button, her fingers pressing it repeatedly. Nothing happened. She pulled her phone from her bag, but the screen taunted her with the words *No Signal*.

And then she felt it—the walls seemed closer, the air warmer, thinner.

Her chest tightened as panic began to claw its way up her throat. Not here. Not now.

Emma had been claustrophobic since she was a child, a scar from an incident she rarely allowed herself to remember. The thought of being trapped, of the walls closing in, was enough to send her spiraling into the dark recesses of her mind.

“No,” she whispered shakily, her voice trembling in the oppressive silence. “Not now. Not here.”

Sweat beaded on her brow, trickling down her temples. She forced herself to take a deep breath, but it felt like inhaling fire. Her throat burned, her lungs screamed, and the enclosed space became a prison.

“Okay, think,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart. “It’s just a glitch. They’ll fix it.”

But as the minutes dragged on, her resolve began to crumble. Her breaths came faster, shallower. She clawed at her chest as though trying to tear through the invisible weight pressing down on her.

“Help!” she screamed, slamming her fists against the walls. Her voice echoed mockingly in the confined space. “Someone! Please!”

The darkness seemed to press against her, suffocating her. Her mind raced with terrifying possibilities. Was this just a malfunction? Or was it something more sinister? What if no one came in time? What if the oxygen ran out?

Emma sank to the floor, curling her knees to her chest. Tears pricked her eyes, threatening to fall, but she refused to let them. She wasn’t ready to die—not here, not like this. She had fought too hard, rebuilt too much, to let it all end in an elevator.

But as the oxygen seemed to grow thinner and her panic reached its peak, she felt the edges of her consciousness begin to fray.

---

When the elevator doors finally slid open an hour later, Emma felt the cool air of the hallway rush in like a lifeline. She stumbled forward, her legs trembling, her body drenched in sweat.

“Emma!” Clara’s voice pierced through the haze, full of panic and relief. She rushed forward, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. “Oh my God, are you okay? I’ve been calling you for the past hour!”

Emma gasped for air, her breaths rugged and uneven. Clara grabbed her shoulders, steadying her.

“You were stuck in there for so long,” Clara said, her voice trembling. “I—I didn’t know if—” She stopped herself, her words caught in her throat.

Emma stiffened for a moment before brushing Clara off gently. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice hoarse and flat.

Clara frowned, her dark eyes scanning Emma’s pale, shaken face. “Fine? You are far from fine! You could have died in there! What if the oxygen—” She cut herself off again, her wide eyes full of fear.

“It was just a malfunction,” Emma said sharply, straightening her posture as though she could will herself back to calm. “Nothing more.”

But Clara wasn’t convinced. She saw the tremor in Emma’s hands, the fear still lingering in her olive-green eyes. “This isn’t normal. The threats, the builder, now this? Can't you see that all these are linked together?”

Emma didn’t respond. Her jaw tightened, her gaze fixed on the far wall as though staring down an invisible enemy.

Clara stepped closer, her voice soft but insistent. “You need to get a bodyguard. This is getting out of hand.”

“I don’t need anyone to protect me,” Emma snapped, her voice sharper than she intended.

Clara flinched but held her ground. “You almost died today, Emma. You’re strong, I know that. But even the strongest people need someone to lean on. Please, just think about it.”

Emma’s eyes softened for a brief moment before she turned away. She hated the idea of leaning on someone for support, but now she has to do so to survive. She hates to admit she needs help. But Clara’s words rang in her ears.

---

Later that night, Emma sat alone in her penthouse, the lights of the city twinkling in the distance. Her reflection stared back at her from the floor-to-ceiling windows, her olive-green eyes filled with exhaustion and unspoken rage.

Her fingers hovered over her phone, scrolling through her contacts. She stopped at Clara’s name and pressed the call.

“Clara,” she said when the line connected, her voice steady despite the storm raging within her. “Get me a list of potential bodyguards. And make it quick.”

For the first time in years, Emma felt the weight of her vulnerability. She hated it. But if hiring a bodyguard was what it took to stay alive and get her revenge, then so be it.

This wasn’t just about survival anymore. This was a war.