Guarded Heart

Sylvia’s POV

The boardroom smelled like money, misery, and a lie.

Cologne clung to the air, thick and artificial, trying too hard to mask the rot underneath. Grief wore a three-piece suit and polished shoes. And ambition? It sat across the table in the form of blood relatives and board members who’d shown up to my father’s funeral just long enough to earn a seat at the war table.

I sat at the head.

Back straight. Legs crossed. My black dress was tailored to the curves they’d once laughed at. Lips painted in my sharpest red — not for vanity, but war paint. A statement.

I wasn’t here to mourn. I’d done that already, in private. I was here to take what was mine.

Uncle Glenn was the first to break the silence. “You’re making a mistake.”

Of course, he was.

“Montgomery International needs stability,” he continued, leaning forward like he hadn’t just tried to stage a takeover while my father’s body was still warm. “You’re grieving. There’s no shame in stepping back.”

“There’s also no shame in knowing when to sit down,” I replied coolly. “I’ve been in every executive meeting for the last four years. I know every number, every merger, every contract.”

I tilted my head, letting the tension sharpen.

“Tell me, Glenn, can you explain the logistics strategy we implemented in our East Asian division last quarter?”

Silence.

He blinked. Flinched. I smiled.

Around the table, a few executives exchanged wary glances. The legal team looked relieved. The CFO cleared his throat like he wanted to speak but wasn’t sure if it was safe.

I didn’t wait for his blessing.

“I’m not taking over this company because I’m the grieving daughter,” I continued. “I’m taking over because no one in this room is more capable of protecting my father’s legacy than I am.”

Silence hung, thick and uneasy.

Then—finally—a nod. Then another. Then, the official vote.

It wasn’t unanimous. But it was done.

I stood, gathering my notes and barely resisting the urge to breathe. I wasn’t naïve. I hadn’t won. I’d just earned enough tolerance to stand at the helm — for now.

As I walked out of the boardroom, heels echoing against polished floors, I felt it.

That prickle at the base of my neck.

The shift in the air.

I didn’t look back. I couldn’t afford to. Not with this many knives in reach.

By the time I reached my penthouse, my feet were screaming. I kicked off my stilettos, letting them land wherever gravity decided. The space was spotless, clinical. Almost too quiet.

White roses bloomed on every surface. Dozens of them. My father’s favorite flower.

His attorney had arranged the deliveries, probably thinking it would bring me peace.

But all it did was remind me how gone he really was.

I stripped off my blazer and poured a glass of merlot. Deep red, like velvet. Like blood.

The city glowed outside the window, a blanket of lights stretching for miles. From up here, it looked beautiful. Controlled. Like I could manage it all.

But my gut told me otherwise.

My phone buzzed.

I didn’t expect the text.

Unknown Number: You should’ve walked away while you could. Next time, it won’t just be your father.

I stared at the screen.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Every word carved itself into my chest like a warning. No emojis. No name. Just venom, plain and clinical.

My skin went cold.

I wasn’t paranoid. Not anymore.

My father had always kept things close to the vest — whispered threats, anonymous tips, strange glitches in our security system. He’d brushed it off as business politics. A hazard of running a billion-dollar empire.

But now he was gone.

And someone was letting me know I was next.

I reached for the phone to call security, then paused.

The intercom buzzed before I could dial.

“Yes?” I answered, voice sharp.

“Ms. Montgomery,” came the front desk’s voice, too calm, too smooth. “There’s someone here to see you. A Mr. Crawford. He says he’s your… bodyguard?”

I blinked. “My what?”

I gripped the phone tightly. “Who sent him?”

“He says he’s with Montgomery Security. He has official documents—authorization codes, clearance, everything.”

Of course.

My father.

Even from the grave, he was always two steps ahead.

“Send him up.”

I hung up and downed the rest of my wine like it could harden the sudden swirl of nerves in my stomach. I didn’t like surprises. And I really didn’t like men who showed up unannounced with words like protection and orders.

A soft chime rang from the elevator.

I turned toward the sound just as the doors slid open.

And everything stilled.

He stepped out like he owned the floor. Tall, carved, and cloaked in a kind of quiet danger that wrapped itself around the room like smoke. He wore a charcoal suit, crisp and severe, but it did nothing to hide the lean muscle underneath. His shoulders were wide, his jaw sharp, and his hands hung loose at his sides, relaxed, but ready.

Predator calm.

His hair was short, cleanly trimmed, with the kind of precision that screamed military. But it was his eyes that stopped me in my tracks.

Steel gray.

Cold. Unreadable. Calculating.

They scanned the room like a threat assessment, landing on me with a look so penetrating it felt like a fingerprint on my skin.

“Sylvia Montgomery?” he asked, voice low and even, like gravel smoothed by silk.

I lifted my chin. “Who’s asking?”

“Jax Crawford. Your new bodyguard.”

He walked forward, extending a sleek black folder. The moment I touched it, I recognized the signature. My father’s. Dated two weeks before his death.

So this wasn’t a bluff. This man—this walking glacier with a death stare—was legitimate.

I snapped the folder shut. “I didn’t request protection.”

“No,” he said. “Your father did. He anticipated escalation. Seems he was right.”

My jaw ticked. I hated being handled, even by ghosts. “I can take care of myself.”

“Not anymore,” he said flatly.

The words hit harder than they should have.

Not because he was wrong. Because he wasn’t.

I folded my arms. “Let me guess—former military? Ex-special forces? Decorated in a dozen places you’re not allowed to talk about?”

“Close,” he said. “But I don’t decorate well.”

The corner of my mouth twitched. Just barely.

He didn’t.

Instead, his eyes drifted down to my phone on the counter, still open to the threat.

His expression sharpened. “Who sent that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You respond?”

“No.”

He nodded once. “Then here’s what happens now: I stay. I run a full security sweep of this residence. And until the threat is neutralized, I’m with you. Everywhere.”

I blinked. “Everywhere?”

“Everywhere.”

“I don’t think so.”

He reached into the folder again and pulled out a waiver. “You’re welcome to decline. Just sign here. It states you’re refusing recommended protection and accept full liability for any resulting harm.”

He held out a pen like he already knew I wouldn’t take it.

I didn’t.

Because the truth was gnawing in my gut, loud and undeniable.

I wasn’t safe.

I hadn’t been for a while.

And now, my father was gone.

I let the silence stretch before answering. “Fine. But don’t think this means I need a babysitter.”

His mouth almost twitched. Almost. “Good,” he said. “I don’t do babysitting.”

He turned and began scanning the perimeter of my penthouse like a soldier mapping terrain, already switching into protection mode.

I watched him move — methodical, confident, lethal. He looked like he could kill a man with a credit card.

And yet… nothing about him felt impulsive. He didn’t posture. He didn’t overexplain.

Jax Crawford didn’t need to prove anything.

He was the threat.

And now, he was mine.

By midnight, the city outside was quiet.

I wasn’t.

Sleep didn’t come. I paced the edges of my penthouse like the windows might offer answers. I’d poured another glass of wine, tried half a bath, and scrolled my phone without really seeing anything.

All while he sat there.

Silent. Still.

Jax had taken up position in the corner of the living area, in one of the velvet armchairs like it was a damn throne. Laptop open. Bluetooth headset in. Not speaking, not typing, just… watching.

Observing everything.

He hadn’t asked personal questions. He hadn’t commented on my robe, the way it clung to my hips, or dipped just enough to tease. He hadn’t even blinked when I stalked past him for the third time barefoot, trying to make a point I hadn’t defined yet.

It was unnerving.

Most men looked at me. Some tried to flirt. Others fumbled over themselves pretending not to. But Jax Crawford? He watched me the way a bodyguard watches a building—assessing structural weak points.

Professional. Detached.

And still somehow so intense, I could feel it in my bones.

I crossed my arms, standing at the edge of the room. “Do you always stare at the door like it owes you money?”

His eyes flicked to me. Briefly.

“Threats don’t sleep,” he said, voice like velvet dragged across gravel.

“Neither do I,” I muttered, sipping my wine.

He didn’t respond.

I let a beat pass, then walked closer. “You know, I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know.”

“I was content managing charity galas and partnerships. Now I’m CEO, target of the week, and apparently can’t be trusted to walk around my own home without a babysitter with a jawline that could cut diamonds.”

That got him. Barely.

His mouth quirked. Not a full smile, but the hint of one. A smirk, trying not to be born.

“I don’t do babysitting,” he repeated.

“No, I suppose you don’t.”

I stared at him, studying the way the shadows caught the edge of his face. He was… beautiful in that hard, untouchable way. Like a storm behind glass.

“I’m serious,” I said, quieter now. “This wasn’t supposed to be my life.”

He finally closed the laptop. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just one smooth motion that gave me his full attention.

“You didn’t choose this,” he said. “But you stepped into it anyway.”

My throat tightened. I didn’t know if it was the wine or the way he said it—like a statement, not flattery. Like he saw me.

I swallowed. “You’re not what I expected.”

His head tilted slightly. “What were you expecting?”

“A neckless ex-cop with a drinking problem and a hero complex.”

Another almost-smile. “Disappointed?”

“Not yet,” I said.

His eyes lingered on mine, cool steel that saw straight through lipstick and bravado.

“Go to bed, Ms. Montgomery,” he said softly. “You don’t need to impress me.”

“I’m not trying to impress you.”

He stood.

My breath hitched before I could stop it.

He was taller than I remembered. Or maybe it was just the way the air shifted when he moved, controlled strength in every step.

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re trying to prove you don’t need me.”

I straightened. “I don’t.”

His voice dropped lower. “Then why haven’t you asked me to leave?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t have one.

Because, despite everything—despite my pride and anger and fire—his presence was the first thing that had made me feel safe in days.

And he knew it.

His gaze dipped, just for a heartbeat, to the hollow of my throat. Then he stepped back, returning to his post without a word.

I stood there a second longer. Then turned away.

I hated the way he could make me feel exposed without touching me. Hated it… and wanted more of it.

This man was dangerous.

Not just to my enemies.

But to me.

The penthouse had never felt this still before.

No soft playlist humming from hidden speakers. No hum of my father’s voice on a late-night call. No staff moving quietly down the hall, tidying things I didn’t ask them to.

Just silence.

And Jax Crawford.

I padded barefoot into the kitchen and poured what was left of the wine into my glass. The clock read 2:17 a.m. The air outside the floor-to-ceiling windows was a blur of city fog and distant lights.

Behind me, Jax was still.

He didn’t pace. He didn’t fidget. He just… waited. Watched.

There was a discipline in that kind of stillness. A warning, too.

I leaned against the marble counter, swirling the wine in my glass. “Do you ever sleep?”

“Lightly.”

“That’s comforting.”

“I’m not here to comfort you,” he said without inflection.

I turned my head slightly to glance at him. “Then why are you here?”

His eyes met mine. Cold. Sharp.

“To keep you alive.”

It should’ve been terrifying.

But it wasn’t.

It was the way he said it. As if dying wasn’t an option he’d allow. As if it had already been decided.

I looked back down at my glass. “There’s a folder in my father’s office. He called it the Red File. I don’t know what’s in it, but he made me swear I’d only open it if something happened to him.”

A pause.

Then: “I want to see it.”

“I thought you weren’t here to ask for things.”

“I’m not.” He stood. “But that file might tell me who’s coming.”

Something tightened in my chest.

I nodded once. “It’s in the wall safe. Behind the portrait.”

He didn’t hesitate. Just turned and walked down the hall like he already knew the layout, his steps soundless across the wood floors.

I took another sip, staring at the skyline. Somewhere out there, someone wanted me gone. And my only shield was a man who looked like he’d never flinched in his life.

A man I didn’t ask for.

A man I couldn’t ignore.

When he returned, he was holding a sleek black folder marked only with a red wax seal. My father’s crest.

Jax didn’t open it in front of me.

He held it in one hand like it was a grenade. Carried it back to his chair. Sat.

Only then did he speak again.

“Whatever’s in here… it started long before your father died.”

“How do you know?”

His jaw flexed, steel eyes catching mine in the dim light.

“Because whoever sent that text isn’t trying to scare you.”

I frowned. “Then what—?”

“They’re preparing you.”

A cold chill slid down my spine.

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t explain.

He just returned to his laptop, flipping open the screen like the conversation was over.

And maybe it was.

But as I turned away and finally walked toward my bedroom, I felt it again — that crackle in the air. The shift. The slow, inevitable unraveling of a life I thought I could control.

I wasn’t just a Montgomery anymore.

I was a mark.

And the man watching over me?

He wasn’t a bodyguard.

He was a weapon.

And now… he was aimed at whoever came next.