Daniel didn’t flinch. “So do people every day in war zones. Emotion doesn’t override duty.”
The room was frozen.
Evelyn stared at him for a long moment.
Then she smiled.
Not a polite smile.
A real one.
“Everyone else,” she said, glancing around the table, “answered differently.”
She stood.
“My husband cheats,” she said flatly. “Has for years.”
The HR director’s face went pale.
“I don’t need a guard who plays hero,” Evelyn continued. “I need one who understands lines. Boundaries. Orders.”
She looked at Daniel.
“When can you start?”
Daniel started the next morning.
The Whitmore estate was less a home and more a fortress—layers of security, private staff, surveillance systems that could rival small governments.
Daniel learned quickly.
Evelyn was precise. Demanding. She hated surprises and despised excuses.
Her husband, Charles Whitmore, was… different.
Charming in public. Cold in private. He barely acknowledged Daniel, except to complain when security inconvenienced him.
“This is overkill,” Charles muttered one evening. “I’m not a target.”
Daniel said nothing.
Targets rarely think they are.
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