The heavy, frantic pounding on the front door vibrated through the floorboards of the old house.
Janet walked down the narrow, creaking wooden staircase, her duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Below her, in the cramped living room, her mother Marlene was pacing.
Marlene's eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. She was nervously twisting a damp tissue around her fingers. When she saw Janet on the stairs, a fresh sob tore from her throat.
Kandy trailed a few steps behind Janet, clinging to the banister. She kept one hand pressed against her bruised cheek, her eyes fixed on Janet's back with a toxic mix of hatred and anticipation. Kandy was waiting for the military to drag Janet away like a prisoner of war.
Janet reached the bottom step. Marlene rushed forward, throwing her arms around Janet's neck.
"I'm so sorry, Janie," Marlene wept, her voice muffled against Janet's shoulder. "The debts... the bank was going to take everything. I had no choice. I'm so sorry I did this to you."
Janet didn't pull away. She wrapped her free arm around her mother's trembling back. She patted her gently, her touch firm and grounding.
"It's okay, Mom," Janet said. Her voice was a steady anchor in the chaotic room. "This is exactly where I need to be. It's the best choice."
Before Marlene could respond, the front door was pushed open.
The sound of heavy, military-grade tactical boots stepping onto the wooden porch sent a shockwave of dread through the room.
A man stepped into the doorway, completely blocking out the morning sun. He was nearly two meters tall, built like a concrete bunker, and dressed entirely in black tactical gear.
Misha Volkov. Gaylord Bradford's head of private security.
He stepped into the living room like a Siberian wolf entering a pen of trembling sheep. The air temperature in the room seemed to instantly plummet. Misha radiated a thick, suffocating aura of bloodlust-the kind of metallic, heavy scent that only clung to men who had survived countless warzones.
Marlene gasped, physically recoiling. She shrank back against the sofa, terrified by the sheer mass of the man.
Janet didn't flinch. She stood her ground, her chin level. She narrowed her eyes slightly, observing the way he carried his massive frame. She recognized him instantly from the fragmented memories of her past life. Misha Volkov. She knew the absolute, unyielding loyalty that beat beneath that terrifying exterior. Her calmness didn't come from a place of ignorance, but from a deep, unspoken understanding of the man standing before her. She knew he wouldn't hurt her unless she proved to be a threat to his master. She held her ground, letting the silence stretch.
Misha noticed her stare. He expected fear. He expected tears. Instead, he found himself being analyzed by a pair of dark, bottomless eyes that seemed to strip him down to his skeleton. A flicker of surprise crossed his icy blue eyes.
He straightened his posture, his hands resting naturally near his waist.
"Future Mrs. Bradford," Misha said. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble, devoid of any warmth. "The convoy is ready."
At that exact moment, Kandy reached the bottom of the stairs. She peered over Marlene's shoulder to look at the man at the door.
Kandy's pupils contracted to the size of pinpricks. A sharp, loud gasp ripped from her throat, sounding incredibly loud in the dead silent room.
Her face turned the color of spoiled milk. Her whole body began to shake violently.
"Misha..." Kandy whispered. The name slipped out of her mouth, carried by a wave of absolute, paralyzing terror.
Misha's head snapped toward Kandy. His icy blue eyes locked onto her like a laser targeting system. In an instant, the passive security guard vanished, replaced by a lethal predator.
Janet caught the shift immediately. Her brain fired rapidly, piecing together the timeline. Kandy's visceral terror. Misha's instant hostility. In the past life, Kandy must have betrayed the Bradford family, and Misha was the one who executed the cleanup.
Misha took one heavy, menacing step toward the stairs.
"How does a civilian in the Rust Belt know my classified operational callsign?" Misha demanded. His voice was a low, dangerous growl that vibrated in Kandy's chest.
Kandy's knees gave out. She collapsed onto the bottom step, her Chanel dress pooling around her. Her teeth were physically chattering.
"I... I saw it!" Kandy stammered, tears of pure terror streaming down her face. "On a visitor badge! From a security company!"
Misha let out a dark, terrifying scoff. "Blackwater-level operatives do not wear name tags, little girl."
Kandy looked at Janet, her eyes wide, silently begging her cousin to save her from the monster. Janet just crossed her arms, her face a mask of cold indifference.
Misha's large hand moved smoothly toward his tactical belt. His thumb brushed the activation button of his encrypted radio. He was preparing to call in the tactical squad waiting outside to detain a potential spy.
The tension in the room was a stretched wire, seconds away from snapping.
Janet finally spoke.
"Don't waste your time, Misha," Janet said, her tone utterly bored. "She's a pathological liar with a severe delusion complex. She probably heard it in a movie."
Misha's hand froze over his radio. He slowly turned his head to look at Janet. He was assessing her, trying to read the truth in her steady gaze.
His primary directive was to secure the heir's fiancée. A messy extraction would draw unwanted military police attention.
Misha let out a harsh breath through his nose. He pulled his hand away from the radio, but he kept his eyes locked on Kandy for one more terrifying second.
"Move," Misha commanded Janet.
Janet hoisted her bag, stepped past her weeping mother and her paralyzed cousin, and walked out the door into the blinding sunlight.
