My Ex-Love. MY BODYGUARD

CHAPTER 1 The green room smelled like stale coffee and yesterday's ambition. Grace Carter sat in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection like it belonged to someone else, some glossy-haired version of herself that had everything figured out. Her makeup artist, Dante, fussed over her cheekbones one last time, but Grace barely registered his touch. Her mind was already three steps ahead, running through the setlist, the choreography, the thousand tiny things that could go wrong in front of twenty thousand people. "You look absolutely stunning, hon," Dante said, stepping back. He squeezed her shoulder gently. "You're gonna kill it out there." Grace managed a smile, the kind she'd perfected over the years bright enough to convince people she was fine, practiced enough that it never quite reached her eyes. "Thanks, D." But she wasn't fine. And everyone in that cramped green room probably knew it. She'd been having dreams again. The ones where she was on stage and couldn't find the exit. Where the lights went out all at once and hands reached for her from the darkness. She'd wake up gasping, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might break through her ribs. Last night, she'd only managed two hours of sleep before giving up entirely and watching the sun come up from her hotel balcony, counting the minutes until she had to be somewhere. The stalker situation had gotten worse. Not in the way the media covered it with their sensational headlines and their insistence on turning her trauma into entertainment. No, worse in the way that mattered the personal way. The letters had started again three months ago. Not the creepy fan mail she was used to deflecting with a practiced laugh and Sally's stern security briefing. These letters were different. Intimate. Specific. He knew things about her daily routine that shouldn't have been knowable. What she'd eaten for lunch on a Tuesday. That she always took her coffee with too much cream. That she'd bought a new guitar but never used it. Last week, he sent a photograph. Just a simple Polaroid of her walking into a coffee shop in Nashville. The photo had no date, no message, just his handwriting on the back: I'm always watching. Always close. Grace had thrown up when Sally showed it to her. She reached for her phone now, scrolling through her recent texts. Nothing from the unknown number today, but that didn't make her feel better. It made her feel worse. It meant he was planning something. Building something. Victor Elias had that kind of patience, the kind that came from obsession so deep it had calcified into something that looked like devotion from a distance. "Five minutes, Grace," someone called from the hallway. She stood, smoothing down her performance outfit. Black leather, rhinestones catching the light like tiny stars. She looked like a warrior. She felt like prey. The walk to the tunnel felt longer than it should have. Security moved around her like satellites, orbiting close but somehow keeping their distance. She'd asked Sally three times if she knew these guys, if they'd been thoroughly vetted, if there was any possibility that one of them could be compromised. Sally had gotten that look, the one that said she was worried about Grace's mental state. That look that made Grace feel like she was losing her grip. Maybe she was. The stadium was roaring. She could feel it in her chest before she even stepped into view. Twenty thousand voices, twenty thousand bodies pressed together, all of them here because they wanted something from her. Entertainment. Escape. A few hours where their problems didn't matter. She got that. She'd been that fan once, before fame became a cage. Her security detail two men in yellow vests she'd never seen before today flanked her at the tunnel entrance. She studied their faces, looking for anything that didn't add up. Anything that felt wrong. The shorter one had kind eyes. The taller one wouldn't meet her gaze. Why wouldn't he meet her gaze? "Miss Carter? Are you ready?" the backstage manager asked. He was sweating. Were they always this sweaty, or was she just noticing things that weren't there anymore? The crowd erupted as she stepped onto the stage. It was always like this moment when the lights hit her and she became something larger than herself. A projection. A fantasy. For two hours, she wasn't Grace anymore. She was the version of her that millions of people had constructed in their minds. And usually, she could slip into that skin and perform, give them what they came for, and leave feeling accomplished. But tonight felt different. As she launched into her first song a high-energy rock number that usually got the crowd on their feet she couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Someone was watching her differently. Someone in that crowd of thousands was watching her with intent. She pushed through four songs. Five. Her voice was strong, her dancing tight, everything by the book. But inside her chest, her heart was doing something it shouldn't do. It was racing. I was afraid. Then came "Back When." Her signature ballad. The song that had started everything, that had opened doors and changed her life. She'd written it about Sunnyridge, about home, about the girl she used to be before success had rewired her entire nervous system. She settled onto the stool, picked up her guitar, and began to play. I grew up in a town so small if you blink you'd miss it. The crowd swayed. Thousands of phone lights flickered on, creating a galaxy of stars. It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was the exact moment when everything shattered. The spotlight swept across the crowd in that deliberate way that made individual faces visible for a split second. And there near the back, in section D she saw it. A sign. Handmade. The letters are large and deliberate. I'M STILL YOURS, Grace. ALWAYS AND FOREVER - F.D. Her fingers stopped moving on the guitar strings. The chord died mid-note. Twenty thousand people noticed the silence at exactly the same time. For a moment that stretched like taffy, Grace couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but stare at that sign while her rational mind insisted it wasn't real, that she was imagining things again, that this was just another manifestation of the anxiety that had been steadily eating her alive. Then the spotlight moved on and the sign disappeared into darkness. Her voice came back. Her hands found the chords. She finished the song on autopilot, muscle memory carrying her through while her mind spiraled. He's here. He's actually here. In the crowd. Watching. Close enough to touch if he wanted to. When the final note ended and the crowd roared, Grace couldn't bring herself to move. Sally appeared at the stage wing, her face tight with concern, her hand already reaching out to pull Grace offstage. "I saw him," Grace whispered as Sally wrapped an arm around her waist. Her voice sounded small. Broken. "I saw Victor." The drive to the hotel passed in a blur of Sally's soothing voice and Thelma's angry muttering. Grace sat in the back seat with her hands shaking, watching the Dallas skyline blur past the window. She was done. She couldn't do this anymore. Four more concerts stretched ahead of her like a prison sentence, and she couldn't imagine walking back onto another stage, couldn't imagine facing that crowd knowing he was out there, watching, waiting. By the time they reached her suite, Grace had made a decision. "I need a bodyguard," she said quietly. "Not just security for the venues. Someone who's with me all the time. Someone I can actually trust." Sally exchanged a look with Thelma, the kind of look that said this had gone beyond normal celebrity paranoia into something that needed real intervention. "I'll make some calls," Sally said carefully. "We'll find someone." Grace nodded, but she wasn't really listening anymore. She was thinking about safety. About trust. About the kind of person you'd have to be to keep someone like her from falling apart completely. She was thinking about how impossible that seemed.