Chapter 1
Isla’s POV
It started with a thunderstorm and a shattered stiletto.
I was already late to the safehouse drop-off thanks to a delayed flight, a nosy fan who tried to grope me in the airport lounge, and a damn near biblical downpour that turned the mountain road into a slip-n-slide. My manager had said, “It’s discreet, Isla. You’ll be safe.” What she forgot to mention was that “discreet” meant no signal, no driver, and a welcome party of exactly one grumpy ex-soldier.
And no glam squad. My curls were frizzing into a halo of rage.
I hit the door with my shoulder because my suitcase was wedged under my arm, my phone was dead, and I was on the verge of a full-blown meltdown. The cabin looked like something out of a movie—sturdy, private, remote. Pine trees framed it like a secret. The kind of place where people go to hide. Or die. I hadn’t decided which yet.
I was soaked, furious, and determined to make someone pay for this mess.
The door swung open before I could knock again. And there he was.
Broad shoulders, unreadable expression, eyes like cold fire.
He didn’t say a word. Just… stared. Like I was an alien—or maybe a bomb someone forgot to defuse.
I blinked water out of my eyes. “You must be the warm welcome they promised.”
He arched one dark brow. “You’re late.”
“And you’re rude.”
“I was expecting a client. Not a walking publicity hazard.”
I bristled. “Excuse me?”
He moved aside, letting me stumble inside, and I caught the faintest scent of cedar and clean cotton. His t-shirt clung to his chest in a way that should’ve been illegal. His arms looked carved. Like he benched small cars for fun.
“Kane Foster,” he said finally, shutting the door behind me. “Ex-SEAL. Now your bodyguard. Try not to make that harder than it has to be.”
“Well, aren’t you just sunshine and rainbows.”
I dropped my bag with a thud, and something clinked inside. Maybe the bottle of emergency tequila. Or my backup rhinestone boots. Either way, I needed one of them immediately.
He gave me a look. “Isla Monroe, correct?”
“In the flesh.”
“You’re wet.”
“I’m observant too. We have so much in common.”
He sighed through his nose like I was already exhausting. Then turned and walked toward the hallway. “There’s a towel in the bathroom. Left of the kitchen. You have the guest room. Lock the door if you want. Or don’t. Up to you.”
“And what if I want to use the fireplace to burn down this whole vibe and start fresh?”
“You won’t,” he said without turning. “You’re too dramatic to go quietly.”
Oh, he was going to be fun.
I took off my soaked Louboutin—well, the remaining one. Its mate had died a noble death in a puddle two miles back when I tried to outrun my own impatience. With every step through the cabin’s wood-paneled interior, I squelched. My ruined mascara itched. My dignity had taken a sabbatical.
And Kane Foster? He hadn’t looked back once.
I could hear him now, rummaging in the kitchen. The soft clink of glass. Probably pouring himself a drink and congratulating himself on surviving one hour with the diva from hell. God, I could practically feel his judgment pulsing through the log walls.
I found the bathroom—rustic but clean—and peeled off my dripping leather jacket. I caught my reflection in the mirror and winced. Smudged eyeliner, hair like Medusa after a wind tunnel, lips bitten raw from frustration.
“You’re a freaking star,” I muttered. “Own it.”
The towel was scratchy and smelled faintly of cedar smoke. I dried off, fixed what I could, and padded barefoot into the guest room, which was surprisingly cozy. A big bed. Quilted blankets. Soft lighting. A small window that overlooked a forest thick enough to hide a dozen paparazzi and maybe an axe murderer or two. Good.
The door creaked behind me. Kane. Holding a steaming mug in one hand and a look of reluctant obligation in the other.
“Tea,” he said. “Figured coffee would just pour gasoline on your mood.”
I took it, stunned. “Was that… a kind gesture?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at me like he was mentally reciting military protocols to avoid committing homicide. “We’ll go over protocol tomorrow. For now, don’t leave the property. Keep your phone off. And don’t open the door for anyone but me.”
“Great. So I’m Rapunzel. But wetter. And sassier.”
He grunted. Turned to leave.
“Wait,” I said.
He paused.
“What’s with the attitude? Did I personally insult your beard or something?”
His jaw ticked. “You’re not what I expected.”
“And what did you expect? Someone quieter? Easier to manage?”
He faced me fully now. The firelight from the hallway cast half his face in gold, the other in shadow. “I expected someone who understood the word danger. This isn’t a vacation, Isla. This is a threat assessment. Your life is in the red zone.”
My breath caught.
He nodded like he saw that flicker of fear and cataloged it. “Someone wants you out of the way. My job is to make sure that doesn’t happen. Your job is to stay alive. And not drive me insane.”
“Touching,” I whispered. “Really. You should write cards.”
His mouth twitched. Barely. But it was there.
Then he was gone.
I sipped the tea in silence. Not chamomile. Something stronger. Darker. Exactly like him.
For a bodyguard, Kane wasn’t exactly reassuring. He was blunt and closed off. Built like war. But there was something in the way he’d stood there just now. Something under the surface—wary, coiled, like he wasn’t just protecting me from the outside world… but from something inside himself, too.
I curled up in the unfamiliar bed, the mug warming my fingers. Outside, the storm raged on, slamming rain against the windows like an angry rhythm section. Inside, I listened for footsteps. Kane’s. My heartbeat. My own questions.
Why me? Who had gotten close enough to issue a credible threat? And why now?
I closed my eyes, trying not to replay the headlines. The obsessive fan. The hacked emails. The interview that had gone sideways last week, when I’d dared to call out a major producer for predatory behavior. The backlash had been swift. The online threats, sharper.
But this wasn’t just online anymore. This was real.
And the man hired to keep me safe?
He was a thundercloud waiting to crack wide open.
I didn’t sleep.
Not because the bed was uncomfortable—it was fine. Not because the room felt unsafe—it didn’t. But because Kane Foster was right down the hall, and every part of me was still buzzing from our standoff.
His voice kept replaying in my head.
“Your job is to stay alive.”
Like I was some reckless brat playing pretend in a high-stakes game. I’d been called dramatic before—I was a performer, after all—but no one had ever accused me of not taking my own safety seriously.
No one who knew what I’d already survived.
