Chapter 3
880 Words
Kai Anders
The first thing I learned about Aria Monroe is that she hates being protected.
The second thing I learn is that she’s terrible at pretending she isn’t scared.
She’s good at hiding it.
Almost too good.
Most people show fear through panic. They raise their voice. They ask questions. They look for someone else to take control.
Aria does the opposite.
She smiles.
She jokes.
She acts like nothing can touch her.
But I notice the little things.
The way her eyes scan a room before she enters.
The way she positions herself where she can see the exits.
The way her fingers tighten around her phone whenever an unfamiliar number appears.
Those aren’t habits of someone who feels safe.
Those are survival habits.
And I don’t like that.
Because it means someone taught her how to live like she’s always being hunted.
“Are you always this quiet?”
Her voice cuts through my thoughts.
I glance over.
She’s sitting across from me in the back of the car, looking out the window.
“I’m working.”
“You’ve been working for three hours.”
“Yes.”
She turns toward me.
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know.”
For a second, she just stares.
Then she laughs.
Not the fake laugh I’ve seen her give cameras.
A real one.
It catches me off guard.
I look away before she notices.
That’s not important.
She’s my assignment.
Nothing more.
The car slows as we approach the studio.
Immediately, something feels wrong.
I sit up straighter.
The driver notices.
“What is it?”
“Keep the doors locked.”
Aria looks at me.
“What?”
I ignored her and watched the entrance.
Too quiet.
Studios are never quiet.
There should be employees moving around. Security checking badges. People rushing to get things done.
Instead, everything feels staged.
Controlled.
Like someone cleared the space on purpose.
“Your interview is inside,” her assistant says from the front seat. “They’re ready for her.”
I don’t take my eyes off the building.
“Stop the car,” I say.
The driver hesitates.
Aria leans forward. “We’re already late—”
“Stop the car.”
Something in my tone cuts through her protest.
The vehicle slows.
I opened the door first.
The second I step out, I feel it.
Wrong.
No danger I can see.
Danger I can sense.
I scan the area.
Too clean.
Too empty.
Then I see it.
A camera crew at the entrance.
But no movement.
No sound of filming.
No director calling action.
Just people standing still.
Waiting.
For her.
I turn back to the car.
“Aria, stay inside.”
She scoffs. “You don’t get to—”
The doors open anyway.
Of course, she gets out.
She always does what she wants.
She steps out like she owns the world, sunglasses on, posture perfect, the version of her everyone expects to see.
But I see the slight tension in her shoulders.
She feels it too.
She just refuses to show it.
“Ready?” her assistant asks.
Aria nods.
We move toward the entrance.
That’s when I noticed the first real problem.
The security team isn’t hers.
They’re not labeled.
Not verified.
Not familiar.
I step slightly closer to her.
She notices.
“Don’t start,” she mutters under her breath.
“I’m not starting anything.”
“You’re breathing like something’s wrong.”
“That’s because something is.”
She doesn’t respond.
But her pace slows half a step.
Good.
She’s listening.
We enter the studio.
Bright lights.
Cameras.
A set designed to look like a casual interview space.
Everything looks normal.
Too normal.
The interviewer greets her with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Aria Monroe. We’re so excited to have you.”
She smiles back.
Perfect.
Controlled.
Professional.
I stand behind her, scanning the room.
Ten people.
Twelve cameras.
One exit behind the set.
Locked.
I don’t like that.
The interview starts.
Questions.
Laughter.
Carefully rehearsed answers.
Then
A sound.
Not loud.
Not obvious.
But wrong.
A click.
I turn instantly.
One of the “camera crew” members isn’t filming.
He’s adjusting something under the tripod.
Not a camera setting.
Something else.
My instincts fire.
“Aria—”
Too late.
The lights flicker.
Once.
Twice.
Then the main studio doors lock with a heavy mechanical sound.
Click.
The interviewer freezes.
“That wasn’t part of—”
The room goes silent.
Aria turns toward me.
“What’s happening?”
I don’t answer.
Because I already know.
This wasn’t an interview.
It was a setup.
And we just walked into it.
I step forward immediately, positioning myself between her and the room.
“Stay behind me.”
Her voice drops. “Kai…”
For the first time, she doesn’t argue.
Because she sees it now too.
The crew isn’t moving.
They’re waiting.
And I realized something cold settling in my chest.
This wasn’t about her schedule.
This wasn’t about publicity.
This was about access.
Someone didn’t just want to see Aria Monroe.
They wanted her in a controlled space.
With no way out.
And I just became the only thing standing between her and whatever comes next.
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