By the time the plane landed, he handed her a matte black card with only one word embossed: ADRIAN, and a number. “If you ever feel unsafe,” he said, “call me. Or don’t. Your choice.”
At baggage claim, two men in dark suits were scanning faces. Isabella’s heart raced. Adrian stepped between her and them casually, a shield of confidence. “Friends of yours?” he murmured.
“No. His men,” she whispered.
He snapped a photo discreetly and muttered something in Italian. It sounded like a promise. Minutes later, a black sedan whisked them away.
“You want help?” he asked.
“Yes. But I want my life back, not just safety,” she said.
“That’s the plan,” Adrian replied.
That night, Isabella found herself in a secure penthouse with a view of the city. The doctor treated her bruises while Adrian stayed silent by the window, a sentinel in the shadows. “Why are you helping me?” she asked.
“Because someone once helped my sister when I couldn’t,” he replied softly.
Days became weeks. The bruises healed, but the nightmares lingered. Adrian was always present, never demanding, never touching — his presence alone spoke safety. Then, news arrived: Damian had filed a missing person report and offered a reward. He was hunting her.
