The next morning at exactly 5:45 AM, Stacy woke to someone pounding on her bedroom door.

"What the hell?" she mumbled, pulling her silk sleep mask off and squinting at her clock.

The pounding continued.

"Go away!" Stacy yelled.

"Ms. Thompson, you have five minutes to get dressed," Isaiah's voice called through the door. "We're going for a run."

Stacy sat up, fury replacing her grogginess. "I don't run!"

"You do now. Four minutes."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!"

"Three minutes. After that, I'm coming in."

"You wouldn't dare—"

She heard the sound of a key turning in her lock. Her father had given him a key to her room?

Stacy scrambled out of bed, grabbing her robe and wrapping it tightly around herself just as her door opened. Isaiah stood in the doorway, dressed in black running gear, looking far too alert for this ungodly hour.

His eyes swept over her once—completely professional, no hint of appreciation for her appearance—before meeting her gaze. "Two minutes. Running clothes. Meet me downstairs."

"Get out of my room!"

"Gladly. Clock's ticking, Ms. Thompson." He pulled the door closed behind him.

Stacy stood there, shaking with rage and something else she didn't want to examine too closely. How dare he? How dare her father?

But she knew if she didn't go down, Isaiah would come back up. And she'd be damned if she gave him the satisfaction of physically dragging her out of bed.

With jerky movements, she pulled on leggings and a sports bra, threw a tank top over it, and shoved her feet into running shoes she'd bought two years ago and never worn. She pulled her long blonde hair into a messy ponytail and stomped downstairs.

Isaiah was waiting by the front door, holding a water bottle. He handed it to her without comment.

"I hate you," Stacy said, snatching the bottle.

"Noted. Let's go."

The morning air was crisp and cool as they stepped outside. The sun was just starting to rise over the Chicago skyline, painting everything in shades of gold and pink.

"We'll start with two miles," Isaiah said, beginning to stretch.

"I'm not running two miles."

"Then run one mile. But you're running."

"Why?" Stacy demanded. "What does this have to do with protection?"

Isaiah straightened, his blue eyes finally showing some emotion—determination. "Because if someone tries to grab you, I need to know you can run. Because physical fitness could save your life. And because your father mentioned you've been cooped up in this house for six months, barely leaving, barely living. Exercise helps with grief."

The last part caught Stacy off guard. She'd expected him to be all business, all protocol. She hadn't expected him to acknowledge her mother's death, or to suggest he actually cared about her well being beyond just keeping her alive.

"How would you know?" she asked quietly.

Isaiah's jaw tightened. "Because I've lost people too. And I know what it's like to drown in it." He started jogging down the driveway. "Come on. We'll take it slow."

Stacy stood there for a moment, torn between her stubborn desire to defy him and a strange curiosity about this infuriating man.

Finally, she started jogging after him.

"This doesn't mean I like you," she called out.

"Good," Isaiah called back. "I'm not here to be liked."

As they ran through the quiet morning streets, Stacy's security detail following at a discrete distance in a black SUV, she couldn't help but wonder what she'd gotten herself into.

And why, despite everything, she was already looking forward to tomorrow's run.

One month later, Stacy was running like her life depended on it.

"Time!" Isaiah called out as she crossed their makeshift finish line at the end of the driveway, breathing hard but steady.

Stacy bent over, hands on her knees, chest heaving. "How... did I do?"

Isaiah checked his watch, and something that might have been approval flickered across his face. "Seven-minute miles. You've cut ninety seconds off your time since we started."

Despite her exhaustion, Stacy felt a surge of pride. A month ago, she could barely run a quarter mile without wanting to die. Now she was running five miles every morning, and actually enjoying it.

"Not bad for someone who claimed she 'didn't run,'" Isaiah said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Was that almost a smile, Mr. Wright?" Stacy straightened up, pushing sweaty blonde hair out of her face. "Careful, people might think you're human."

"Can't have that." But his eyes held warmth that hadn't been there four weeks ago.

Their relationship had shifted, slowly and subtly. Stacy was still stubborn-she'd tried to ditch him at the mall twice, refused to change her shopping plans, and insisted on eating at restaurants he deemed "security nightmares." But Isaiah never bent. He simply cancelled her car, rerouted her schedule, or physically positioned himself between her and whatever danger he perceived.

The first time he'd literally picked her up and carried her away from a crowd that was getting too aggressive, Stacy had screamed at him for twenty minutes. Isaiah had waited until she finished, then calmly explained his reasoning. When she tried the same stunt again, he'd done it again.

Stacy learned quickly that Isaiah Wright didn't do anything he didn't want to do, and nothing she said or did would change that. It was infuriating. It was also, she was beginning to realize, exactly what she needed.

"Alright," Isaiah said, tossing her a fresh water bottle. "Cool down stretch, then we're starting something new."

"What new thing?"

"Self-defense training."

Stacy's eyes widened. "Seriously?"

"You're fast now. That's good. But if someone corners you, you need to know how to fight back." Isaiah started walking toward the house. "Thirty minutes to shower and eat. Meet me in the gym."

Their house had a full gym in the basement that Stacy had maybe used twice in her life. Now she showered quickly, threw on workout clothes, and headed down to find Isaiah had already set up mats on the floor.

He'd changed too-black athletic pants and a fitted gray t-shirt that showed off arms that looked like they could bend steel. Stacy tried not to stare.

"First rule," Isaiah said as she approached. "Always be aware of your surroundings. Most attacks can be avoided if you see them coming."

"And if I don't see them coming?"

"Then you create distance and run. That's always your first option." He moved to the center of the mat. "But if you can't run, you need to know vulnerable points. Eyes, nose, throat, groin. You're not trying to win a fight-you're trying to create an opening to escape."

For the next hour, Isaiah walked her through basic movements. How to break a wrist grip. How to throw an elbow. How to use her body weight to her advantage even though she was smaller than most attackers.

Stacy was terrible at it.

"No, your stance is too wide," Isaiah said for the tenth time. "You'll lose your balance."

"I'm trying!"

"Try harder." But his voice wasn't harsh, just firm.

He demonstrated again, his movements fluid and precise. When Stacy attempted to copy him, she nearly tripped over her own feet.

"This is hopeless," she groaned. "I'm not a fighter."

"You're not a fighter yet," Isaiah corrected. He stepped behind her, and Stacy felt her breath catch as his hands gently adjusted her shoulders. "You're thinking too much. Stop trying to be perfect and just react."

His touch was professional, clinical even, but Stacy was acutely aware of how close he was, the heat of his body behind hers.

"Feet shoulder-width apart," Isaiah continued, apparently unaffected. "Knees slightly bent. Good. Now when I grab you-" his hand closed around her wrist, firm but not painful, "-what do you do?"

Stacy's mind went blank. All she could focus on was the pressure of his fingers, the smell of his cologne.

"Stacy."

She snapped back to attention. "Um. Twist away?"

"Show me."

She tried to yank her arm free and failed completely.

"You're pulling against my strength," Isaiah said patiently. "Don't do that. You'll never win. Instead-" He released her, then grabbed her wrist again. "Rotate your wrist toward my thumb. That's the weakest point of my grip."

Stacy tried again, and this time her hand slipped free.

"Better," Isaiah said. "Again."

They drilled the movement over and over. Then another. And another. Isaiah was endlessly patient, never getting frustrated when she messed up, always explaining things clearly. He corrected her form with the same professional detachment, never inappropriate, never making her feel uncomfortable.

"Alright," he finally said after two hours. "That's enough for today."

Stacy collapsed on the mat, every muscle screaming. "You're trying to kill me."

"If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead." Isaiah handed her a towel. "You did well."

"I was awful."

"You were a beginner. There's a difference." He sat down beside her, not quite close enough to touch. "Everyone's terrible at first. The key is showing up and doing the work. You're doing that."

Stacy looked at him, really looked at him. His blue eyes were serious, sincere. "Why do you care if I learn this?"

Isaiah was quiet for a moment. "Because the world is dangerous, especially for people like you. Wealthy, visible, vulnerable. And because..." He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I've seen what happens when people can't defend themselves. I don't want that to happen to you."

There was something in his voice, a old pain that made Stacy wonder what he'd witnessed, what he'd lived through.

"Isaiah-"

"Go eat lunch," he said, standing abruptly. "I'll be upstairs when you're done. Your father wants you to review some documents for the foundation."

And just like that, the walls were back up.

Over the next three weeks, their routine solidified. Morning runs where Stacy pushed herself harder, trying to impress Isaiah even though she told herself she didn't care what he thought. Self-defense training where she slowly, painfully, began to improve. Isaiah was always patient, always professional, always maintaining that careful distance.

But Stacy noticed things. The way Isaiah's jaw clenched when other men looked at her too long. How he always positioned himself between her and potential threats, so naturally she doubted he even thought about it. The way his eyes softened slightly when she made a self-deprecating joke, as if he wanted to argue but held back.

She also noticed that she'd stopped trying to ditch him. Stopped complaining about the runs. Started looking forward to their training sessions, even when they left her sore and exhausted.

She was getting attached, and that terrified her.

Stacy still spent her free time digging into her mother's death, but carefully now. She'd learned Isaiah reported her activities to her father, so she was subtle. Late-night internet searches. Quiet questions to her mother's old friends. Piecing together a puzzle she didn't fully understand yet.

But she was getting closer. She could feel it.

Isaiah, meanwhile, maintained his routine with military precision. After their morning training, he'd give her space to shower and eat breakfast in peace, though she knew he was always nearby, monitoring the security feeds from his room. He'd eat his own meals quickly, efficiently, like it was just another mission objective.

He joined her for lunch when she ate at home, sitting at the opposite end of the table, always watching the doors and windows. He accompanied her to meetings, shopping trips, and dinners with other rich people who tried to be her friends, a silent shadow that her friends had stopped commenting on.

"Your bodyguard is so hot," one of the girls Melissa had whispered last week over cocktails. "Does he ever smile?"

"Not that I've seen," Stacy had replied, trying to ignore the possessive flutter in her chest.

Now, as Stacy finished her shower after a particularly brutal training session-Isaiah had introduced grappling today, which meant a lot of close contact that left her flustered-she heard her phone ring.

It was her father.

"Stacy, I need you to come to my office," David said without preamble.

"When?"

"Now. Bring Isaiah."

Twenty minutes later, Stacy and Isaiah sat across from her father in his downtown office. David looked tired, stressed, but also... excited?

"The Thompson Foundation Gala is in three days," David said.

Stacy's heart jumped. The gala was the biggest event of the year, a massive fundraiser her mother had started fifteen years ago. Stacy hadn't been allowed to attend since her mother's death, her father deeming it too public, too risky.

"I know," Stacy said carefully. "What about it?"

"You're going." David looked at Isaiah. "With full security, of course. Isaiah will be with you the entire time."

"You're letting me go?" Stacy couldn't keep the hope out of her voice.

"I've been thinking about what you said. About living in fear, about hiding." Her father's expression softened slightly. "Your mother would hate seeing you locked away. And with Isaiah there, I trust you'll be safe."

Stacy felt tears prick her eyes. This was the first time in six months her father had acknowledged that maybe, just maybe, his over protectiveness was hurting her too.

"Thank you," she whispered while staring at her father

David nodded, then turned to Isaiah. "I'll send you the full security plan. I want your assessment by tomorrow."

"Understood, sir." Isaiah's expression remained neutral, but Stacy saw his hand tighten slightly on the armrest. He wasn't necessarily happy about this.

After they left her father's office, Stacy practically bounced to the car. "I can't believe I'm finally going! I need a dress, and shoes, and-"

"We need to talk about security protocols," Isaiah interrupted.

"Can't we talk about them later? I'm excited!"

"Stacy." Isaiah stopped walking, and his serious tone made her pause. "A public event like this, with hundreds of people, many of whom we can't vet in advance... it's a security nightmare."

"So you don't think I should go?"

"I didn't say that." He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I think you should go. I think your father's right that you need to start living again. But I need you to be smart about this. Stay close to me. Don't wander off. If I tell you to move, you move immediately. No questions, no arguments."

"I can do that," Stacy said quietly.

Isaiah searched her face, those blue eyes intense. "Can you? Because this isn't like our morning training sessions. If there's a real threat, every second counts."

"I trust you," Stacy said, and realized she meant it completely.

Something shifted in Isaiah's expression, a crack in his professional armor. He paused slightly before he responded "Okay," he said softly. "Okay. Then let's make sure you're ready." Stacy nodded and Isaiah seemed to look out the wind as if scanning out the car as usual.

As they drove home, Stacy couldn't shake the feeling that the gala was going to change everything. She just didn't know if that change would be for better or worse.