And the worst part is, I will. Because he's right. The thought of driving my own car now, knowing someone out there might be watching, waiting, sends a cold trickle down my spine.
I would never admit it to him, but the image of the armored vehicle is a comfort.
"Fine," I say, the word clipped. "But this will not become the norm."
"Yes, it will," he says. "This is one of my non-negotiables. The car, the route, and the timing. That's my domain. Until the threat is eliminated, that's how it will be."
"Your domain?" I scoff. "You're here to protect me, not to run my life."
"And if you keep seeing it as me trying to run your life," he starts, "we're going to get nowhere fast. This is about mitigating risk, and that starts with controlling your environment."
I stare at him, my mind racing for a counterargument, a way to push back, to reclaim some piece of the ground I'm losing with every word he says.
But there isn't one. Not a logical one. And arguing with him about logistics feels like a losing battle. He's built a fortress of reason around himself, and I'm throwing pebbles at the walls.
I don't know what makes me angrier, that he's so damn logical or that I'm the one who's usually logical. But right now I just feel emotional, and that's not a place I like to be.
This is not me.
I am calm. I am in control. I am not the kind of woman who lets a man in a suit, no matter how well-fitted, turn her into a bundle of raw nerves and petty defiance.
I take a slow, deep breath, and the air in the garage feels cooler, more solid.
"Let me be clear," I say, my voice lower now, more measured. "You are here as a consultant. A very expensive, very well-armed consultant. But this is still my life, my business, my city. You don't get to walk in here and start making unilateral decisions."
"I'm not," he says, and for the first time, there's a hint of something in his voice. Not frustration, not anger, but a kind of... weariness. As if he's had this conversation before, many times, and he's tired of it. "The only unilateral decisions I make are the ones that are directly related to your safety. The rest of it is negotiable."
"And what if I don't want to negotiate?" I challenge.
"Then we'll argue," he says, and there's no hint of a smile on his face. "And then you'll do what I say, because I'm the one with the expertise to keep you alive."
My fists clench at my sides. The arrogance of it is breathtaking. But it's not the arrogance of a man trying to dominate me. It's the arrogance of a master craftsman who knows his trade. And it's that, more than anything, that disarms me.
I look away, at the sleek lines of my convertible, the car I chose for myself, a symbol of my independence. And in that moment, it feels like a toy.
"So what now?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. "You do your sweep, we get in your tank, and you drive me to work?"
"Yes," he says. "We'll take a route I've already mapped out. I have several routes mapped out, and we will be taking them at random.
I nod, a single, sharp jerk of my head. I can feel the fight draining out of me, replaced by a cold, hard knot of resignation. This is happening. It's real.
"I need to finish getting ready," I lie, turning away from him. I was up early and have been ready, but I need to escape the intensity of his gaze, the sheer unwavering presence of him. "I'll meet you in the foyer at 8:30."
"I'll be waiting," he says.
I walk away without looking back, my heels clicking on the concrete floor of the garage, a sharp, angry sound echoing in the quiet space.
I am in the middle of explaining projected Q3 gaming revenue to three people on a Zoom call when Adrian Donato crouches beside my credenza and runs his hand under it like he expects to find a bomb taped there.
I keep my face perfectly still.
Or I try to.
On the screen, Harold Benton from one of our financing groups is talking about debt service ratios and phased expansion costs,his voice tinny through my laptop speakers. To his left, in another square, Marissa from Compliance is taking notes with that same brisk, unreadable efficiency she always has. On the third square, a consultant with a face like damp toast is nodding along to the points I’m making.
Normally, this kind of meeting is easy territory for me.
Numbers. Timelines. Projections. Risk.
