Absolutely not.
“I know how to defend myself,” I say. “I carry my own weapon. I’m trained. My house has security. The casino has security. The floor has cameras. The entrances are monitored. The entire property is covered. What exactly is this man supposed to do that isn’t already being done?”
“Stay closer.”
I throw up a hand. “That is not an answer.”
“I don’t owe you one,” he says calmly.
I stop pacing and look at him in disbelief. “You cannot honestly think this is practical.”
“I’m not thinking about practicalities. I’m thinking about keeping you alive.”
The air in the room goes still. The words are blunt enough to cut straight through the noise.
I hate that too.
I swallow and hold his gaze. “You don’t get to throw that at me like I’m being dramatic for not wanting my life turned upside down.”
His expression hardens. “You think I enjoy this?”
“I think you enjoy making decisions for me and expecting me to fall in line.”
His jaw ticks.
There it is. A crack in the calm.
Good.
“Everything I do is to protect this family,” he says.
“And everything I do is to hold up my end of it. I work, Papà. I work all the time. I built a role for myself that matters. Do you have any idea what it will look like if I start showing up everywhere with a bodyguard? Do you know what kind of message that sends?”
“Yes,” he says. “That you’re protected.”
“No. It says I’m vulnerable. It says I’m being watched. It says there’s something wrong. People notice these things.”
“Let them notice.”
Of course he says that. He does not spend his days trying to earn authority in rooms full of men who smile at me like I am decorative until I start talking numbers and make them realize I know exactly where every dollar is buried.
He does not know what it costs to be taken seriously as the youngest child. The daughter. The one people assume got handed a title, a nice office, and a seat at the table because of blood.
He built the table. He never had to fight to prove he belonged at it.
I shake my head. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it.”
My laugh comes out flatter now, exhausted around the edges. “Fine. I have a job I’m good at, that I’m respected for. I have responsibilities that matter. I am trying to build a reputation that belongs to me, not just to this family name. And I cannot do that while some giant ex-military stranger shadows me from the minute I wake up until the minute I go to bed. It undermines me.”
My father says nothing for a moment.
Then, quietly, “This family name is exactly why you need him.”
I look away.
That one is true, maybe more than anything else.
