It happened the morning Marcus Cole was supposed to arrive.
I'd set my alarm for 6:30, planning to shower and dress and at least appear functional before meeting my new bodyguard. Instead, I woke at 5:47 to the sound of glass breaking.
My bedroom window—the one that faced the fire escape, the one I always kept locked—had a fist-sized hole in it. On my floor, surrounded by shattered glass, lay a brick.
Attached to the brick: a note.
NO ONE CAN PROTECT YOU.
I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I picked up my phone with hands that felt like they belonged to someone else and called 911 with a voice that sounded distant and calm.
"Someone just threw a brick through my bedroom window. There was a threatening note attached."
"Ma'am, are you in a safe location?"
"I don't know if anywhere is safe anymore."
The police came. They took pictures, collected evidence, asked the same questions they'd asked before. Did I have enemies? Did I know who might be doing this? Had I considered staying somewhere else?
"I have a security consultant arriving at eight," I told them.
"That's probably wise," the officer said, which was police speak for we can't help you but we're glad someone can.
At 7:58, my buzzer rang.
I checked the intercom camera—a habit I'd had installed after the first note—and saw a man standing in my building's vestibule. Tall. Dark jacket over a button-down shirt. Military posture even while standing still. A face that looked like it had been assembled from hard edges and harder experiences.
"Avery Sinclair? Marcus Cole."
I buzzed him up, then stood by my door with my hand on the deadbolt, waiting for the knock. It came at exactly 8:00. Punctual. Professional.
I opened the door.
Up close, Marcus Cole was even more imposing than his photo suggested. He was broad-shouldered in a way that suggested regular, serious workouts. His dark hair was cut short, going silver at the temples despite him looking barely older than me. His eyes were the color of storm clouds—gray and watchful and impossible to read.
He didn't smile. "I'm Cole. Your father hired me."
"I'm aware."
"Can I come in?"
I stepped aside, suddenly aware of my apartment's vulnerability—the broken window covered in plastic, the glass still glittering on my bedroom floor, the evidence of a life that had become a crime scene.
Marcus walked through my space like he was mapping it, checking sight lines and entry points and whatever else bodyguards checked when they assessed a location. His expression grew darker with each observation.
"Your security is terrible."
"Thank you. That's exactly what I needed to hear right now."
"Your door has one deadbolt. Your windows face a fire escape. Your neighbors don't have cameras." He turned to face me, and something in his expression shifted—still hard, but with an undertone of something like concern. "Someone broke your window this morning."
"How did you—"
"I can see the plastic sheeting. And you're holding yourself like someone who's been scared awake." He crossed his arms. "Tell me everything. From the beginning."
So I did. The notes, the photos, the escalating threats. The police who seemed unworried. The brick through my window at dawn. Every detail I could remember, laid out for this stranger because my father had asked me to trust him.
Marcus listened without interrupting. When I finished, he pulled out his phone and started taking pictures of everything—the window, the notes, the photos still spread on my desk.
"You can't stay here," he said.
"This is my home."
"This is a target." He looked at me directly, and I felt the weight of his assessment—not unkind, but unflinching. "Someone has been watching you for weeks. They know your routines, your schedule, probably your habits. They're escalating. The brick was a message: they can reach you anywhere."
"What do you suggest?"
"A safe house. Somewhere this person doesn't know about. We stay there until we figure out who's behind this and how to stop them."
"I have a job. I have responsibilities—"
"You have a threat." His voice was quiet but carried absolute authority. "Everything else can adapt. Your life can't."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to assert my independence, to refuse to be driven from my home by fear. But the plastic sheeting rustled in the morning breeze, and I could still feel the jolt of waking to breaking glass.
"Fine," I said. "But I'm not going to some bunker. I need to be able to work. To see my friends. To live some version of my life."
"That can be arranged." Was that the hint of approval in his voice? "Pack a bag. Essentials only. We leave in thirty minutes."
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere safe." He moved toward the door, already scanning the hallway. "I'll secure the building exits while you pack. Don't open the door for anyone but me."
"How will I know it's you?"
For the first time, something close to a smile crossed his face. "I'll knock twice, then once, then twice again. Anyone else, you call me immediately."
He handed me a card with a phone number—just digits, no name.
"And Miss Sinclair? Whatever you're thinking about me right now—whatever assumptions you're making about my past or my methods or whether I'm qualified to protect you..." He paused at the door, that storm-gray gaze pinning me in place. "I don't care what you think. I care that you're alive. Everything else is negotiable."
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with my broken window and my fear and the strangest sensation that maybe—just maybe—I wasn't as alone as I'd thought.