Close Quarters

The threat escalated on Tuesday.

Victoria was in a board meeting at the foundation's downtown offices when Marcus appeared in the doorway, his expression controlled but urgent. He caught her eye and gave a subtle nod toward the hallway.

"Excuse me for just a moment," Victoria said to the eight board members seated around the conference table. They'd been discussing the expansion of the legal aid program into Sacramento, but one look at Marcus's face told her this was serious.

In the hallway, he kept his voice low. "We need to leave. Now."

"What happened?"

"Someone left a package at the reception desk addressed to you. My team's cleared the building, but until we know what we're dealing with, I want you somewhere secure."

Victoria's stomach dropped, but she kept her voice steady. "What kind of package?"

"Gift-wrapped. No return address. Security footage shows a courier service dropped it off twenty minutes ago, but when my team called the company, they have no record of any delivery here today."

A fake courier. Someone impersonating a legitimate service to get close to her office. Victoria felt the familiar prickle of fear along her spine—the same feeling she'd had six months ago when that dead rat appeared on her doorstep.

"The board meeting—"

"Your deputy director can handle it. I've already called your driver. We're taking you home, and you're staying there until we sort this out."

He wasn't asking. Victoria had hired Marcus specifically because he was former Special Forces, because he was thorough and professional and wouldn't hesitate to override her preferences if her safety was at risk. But agreeing to leave meant canceling her afternoon meetings, meant showing weakness, meant letting whoever was doing this disrupt her life.

"Five minutes," she said. "Let me close out the meeting properly, then we'll go."

Marcus's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "I'll be right outside this door. Five minutes."

Victoria returned to the conference room, offered a brief explanation about a security concern, and asked her deputy director to chair the rest of the meeting. To their credit, the board members asked no questions—they knew her work made her a target sometimes. Within four minutes, she was in the hallway with Marcus, his hand at the small of her back as he guided her toward the private elevator.

The package turned out to be a gift basket. Expensive chocolates, wine, a card that read: For all your hard work. An admirer. But tucked beneath the cellophane was a photograph—Victoria leaving her house that morning in yoga pants and a sweatshirt, her hair in a messy bun, coffee cup in hand. Taken from her own driveway.

"They were at your house," Marcus said flatly, standing in her study while his team processed the basket for prints.

"This morning, probably around six-thirty based on what you were wearing."

Victoria sat in her desk chair, feeling violated in a way she hadn't experienced since Richard's betrayal. Her home was supposed to be safe. Private. The one place where she didn't have to perform or protect herself.

"How did they get past security?" she asked.

"They didn't come onto the property. This was taken with a telephoto lens from the street." Marcus pulled up footage on his tablet, showing her a gray sedan parked three houses down from 6:15 to 6:45 that morning. "We ran the plates. Stolen. Car was found abandoned in Oakland two hours ago."

"So they're smart. Careful."

"Yes." Marcus set the tablet down, his expression grim. "Which means this isn't some angry ex-husband you helped prosecute. This is someone with resources, planning, and a specific interest in you."

Victoria wrapped her arms around herself. The study suddenly felt cold despite the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. "What do we do?"

"We increase security. Again. I'm moving into the guest house."

Her head snapped up. "I'm sorry, what?"

"The guest house. Behind the pool. It has sight lines to all the main entrances and your bedroom window." His tone was matter-of-fact, professional. "If someone tries to approach the property, I'll know immediately. And I'll be close enough to respond in under thirty seconds."

"Marcus, that's—you can't just move into my guest house."

"Yes, I can. It's in my contract. Clause seventeen: 'In case of credible threats to the principal's safety, the head of security may determine appropriate protective measures including but not limited to enhanced surveillance and closer physical proximity.'" He met her eyes. "This is a credible threat, Victoria. Someone photographed you in your own driveway this morning and sent it to you gift-wrapped like a taunt. They're escalating, and I'm not taking chances with your life."

He was right. Victoria knew he was right. But having Marcus living fifty feet away, being able to see her lights at three in the morning, knowing he was watching—it felt intimate in a way that terrified her.

"When?" she asked quietly.

"Tonight. I'll move my things in after your evening conference call with the Sacramento office."

"That's at seven."

"I know your schedule."

Of course he did. Marcus knew everything—her meetings, her habits, which nights she stayed up late, which mornings she went for runs in the neighborhood. It was his job to know. But now that knowledge would be even more immediate, more present.

More dangerous to the walls she'd built.

"Fine," Victoria said, because what choice did she have? "But we need ground rules."

"Such as?"

"You maintain professional boundaries. No more comments about my armor or what's beautiful. No more looking at me like—" She stopped, unsure how to finish.

"Like what?"

"Like you're seeing things I don't want seen."

Marcus was quiet for a moment. Then he moved around her desk, crouching down so they were at eye level. Close enough that she could see the concern in his dark eyes, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow that she'd never noticed before.

"I can't promise that," he said softly. "I can maintain professional protocols in public. I can keep my hands to myself and call you Ms. Ashford and stand at the appropriate distance. But when we're alone, I'm not going to pretend I don't see you. That's not possible anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because three days ago on that terrace, you asked me which Marcus Cole you get—the one who tells the truth or the one who hides behind protocols. You chose truth. That means when we're alone, I'm honest. Even when that honesty is uncomfortable."

Victoria's heart was racing. "What if I changed my mind? What if I want the protocols back?"

"Then you tell me, and I'll give them to you. But I don't think that's what you want."

He was right. God help her, he was right. What Victoria wanted was this—someone who saw through her performance, who refused to let her hide, who pushed back when she retreated into her safe, controlled distance.

What she wanted was dangerous.

"My conference call is at seven," she said instead of answering. "You can move in after that."

Marcus stood, the professional mask sliding back into place. "I'll coordinate with Rosa about which key works for the guest house. And Victoria?"

"Yes?"

"I'm not your enemy. I'm not here to hurt you or push you into something you're not ready for. I'm here to keep you safe. Everything else is your call."

He left before she could respond, closing the study door quietly behind him.

Victoria sat in her chair, staring at the security footage of the gray sedan parked outside her home, and tried to remember when her life had become this complicated. Five years ago, she'd been Mrs. Richard Ashford, living in Napa with a man she thought she'd spend forever with. Now she was a woman with death threats and a security detail and a man who saw through every wall she'd built.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Jennifer: Chronicle interview rescheduled for Thursday. Also, you got flowers. Should I send them up?

Victoria almost said yes before she remembered the gift basket. "No," she texted back. "Have security check them first. Then throw them away."

She couldn't trust anything anymore. Not gifts, not deliveries, not the quiet moments when she felt safe.

But maybe, she thought, watching Marcus through the window as he coordinated with his team, she could trust him.

The question was whether she was brave enough to try.

That night, after her seven o'clock conference call, Victoria watched from her bedroom window as Marcus carried two duffel bags into the guest house. The structure was small but elegant—her architect had designed it as a meditation space, though Victoria had never actually used it for meditation. Mostly it sat empty, a pretty building with no purpose.

Now it would house the man who saw through her armor.

Her phone rang. Richard's name flashed on the screen.

Victoria almost didn't answer. They hadn't spoken in eight months, not since his wedding to Melissa. But curiosity won out.

"Richard."

"Victoria. I heard about the security situation. Are you all right?"

How did he know? Victoria felt a flash of irritation. "I'm fine. How did you hear about it?"

"Morrison mentioned it at lunch today. He's worried about you."

Senator Morrison, who'd been at the gala. Who'd probably heard it from Jennifer or one of the board members. The society gossip mill in San Francisco was efficient.

"Tell the Senator I appreciate his concern, but I have excellent security."

"Still. These threats—Victoria, maybe you should ease up on some of the foundation's work. The domestic violence advocacy, going after powerful men. It's making you a target."

There it was. The same condescending concern Richard had always shown when her passions inconvenienced him. When her work became too much, too loud, too intense for his carefully curated image.

"No," Victoria said simply.

"Victoria—"

"I'm not easing up on anything. These women need help. They need someone willing to fight for them. If that makes me a target, then I'm a target. But I'm not backing down."

Richard sighed. "You always were stubborn. I just—I still care about you. Despite everything. I don't want to see you hurt."

"Then you should have thought about that before you slept with your assistant."

The words came out sharper than she'd intended. Five years, and apparently the anger was still there, buried beneath all her careful control.

"That's not fair," Richard said quietly.

"No, it's not. But here we are." Victoria took a breath. "I appreciate the call, Richard. But I'm fine. Really. You don't need to worry about me anymore."

She hung up before he could respond.

Through the window, she could see lights on in the guest house. Marcus was settling in, unpacking, creating a space fifty feet from her bedroom where he'd watch over her through the nights.

Victoria thought about Richard's comment—that she was making herself a target by refusing to back down. He was right, in a way. She could ease up, focus on less controversial work, stop going after the powerful men who abused women.

But then what? Who would fight for those women if she didn't?

Her phone buzzed. A text from Marcus: All secure. Get some rest. I've got you.

Simple. Direct. But those three words—I've got you—meant more than Richard's entire phone call.

Victoria changed into her pajamas, brushed her teeth, and climbed into bed. But sleep didn't come. She lay in the darkness, aware of Marcus in the guest house, aware that someone had photographed her that morning, aware that her safe, controlled life was unraveling in ways she couldn't predict or control.

Finally, at 1:47 AM, she gave up and went to her study. Opened her laptop. Started reading the emails that had come in since this afternoon—twelve new messages from women asking for help, each one a story of pain and survival that needed her attention.

Through the window, she could see the guest house. And there, backlit in the doorway, was Marcus. Watching her study light come on. Checking on her like he'd said he would.

She should have felt exposed. Instead, she felt seen.

Victoria raised her hand in a small wave. Marcus returned it, then disappeared back into the guest house.

And somehow, for the first time in five years, she didn't feel quite so alone at three in the morning.