Frank took the bullet meant for her.

It was like a slow song no one had written yet. The walls came down. The security protocols were forgotten. For a few hours, he wasn’t a bodyguard and she wasn’t a legend. They were just two people holding onto each other in the dark.

She didn’t scream when the glass shattered. That was the first thing he noticed. Rachel Marron, the woman with the voice that could crack stadium lights, simply stopped mid-sentence, turned her head toward the broken window, and placed her champagne glass down with a steady hand.

“I’m not here to be impressed,” he said. “I’m here to keep you alive.”