Neither of us shifts our gazes.
Jane asks, “Is there anything I can do?”
Protocol: do not engage your client in a crisis. It could inflict unnecessary stress on them. For Xander Hale, the protocol is applicable. But pushing Jane out of these conflicts has always made her more anxious.
I edge closer. “You know how to read these?”
“I do. There should be a table of contents in the front.” She glances quickly at me. “Have you read a newspaper before?”
I stand right beside Jane. “I never read through one.” I pause and decide to add, “My grandma reads them all the time and she’ll line drawers with old newspapers. I just use them to clean grill grates.”
She smiles at that image, for some reason. I think I’m a pretty plain person. Too quiet, too serious, I’ve been told. But she appreciates even the simplest things I say.
I lower the newspaper to her height. Careful not to touch my body to any part of her body, the space between us like a tense void, and I fan out the paper with strict hands.
She skims the inked words. “The entertainment section begins on page thirty.”
“We’re not looking for that section from what I heard.” A sharp electronic frequency from the comms suddenly nails my ear. I breathe in. Angry bands of my muscles tighten, but I can’t recoil. I stay fixed in place.
Fixed on this mission.
I hold her gaze. “We’re looking for an ad.”
Her brows jump. “An ad?”
“I don’t know what kind,” I explain. “All I could hear was that there’s an ad in a newspaper. It might not even be in this one.”
She nods and then peers closer, practically tucked to my side. My muscles tighten while I resist an impulse to place my hand on the small of her back.
Jane points a finger to the table of contents. “Ads should all be in this section. The classifieds.”
Page 52.
Good to go. I flip pages while I hold the paper between us.
One more page.
I turn the last one—and the advertisement is impossible to miss.
Jane freezes, wide-eyed at the paper, and my harsh gaze narrows on the typed headline and full-page ad below.
MODERN DAY CINDERELLA: JANE ELEANOR COBALT IS LOOKING FOR HER PRINCE CHARMING.
Are you single and searching for love? Are you a gentleman ready to spend your life with a studious young woman? Jane Cobalt, daughter of Rose Calloway Cobalt & Richard Connor Cobalt, is seeking a man who is…
1. Formally educated: college degree required, masters or doctorate preferred, bonus points if Ivy League.
2. Property owner: a man who bought his own place is sexy.
3. Businessman: can be a hobby or profession, bonus points if finance is involved.
4. Financially set: a six-figure salary minimum, and don’t leave her with the bill, even if she’s worth more than you.
5. Must own a 2nd mode of transportation, other than a car: yacht, private jet, helicopter, etc. Motorcycle does not count, sorry boys!
If you meet these five requirements, please contact 215-555-4908 or [email protected] A resume and photo are required before the selection process begins.
Whatever deluded jackass wrote this pile of shit—they just put Jane in real danger, and instantly, I want to shield her from all of it. This ad won’t go unnoticed. I’ve been a bodyguard long enough to know this’ll attract a certain kind of man.
My eyes flash hot like missile strikes at the newspaper, blood boiling.
I’m not letting anyone near Jane.
She expels a breath. “The initial shock is starting to wear off.” Leaning closer, she rereads the ad with a methodical expression.
I look her over in another critical sweep. She’s my first concern.
First priority.
And she’s been through enough hellfire to be numb to a ton of fucked-up things. More than imaginable. I’m not surprised she’s taking an analytical approach right now.
I lower my voice. “The team and I will deal with this. The Tri-Force should already be involving lawyers.” When I used to be the lead of Epsilon, I had to handle those details, and I would’ve already had legal on call.
“Thank you,” she says, almost in a whisper. “The paparazzi’s enthusiasm outside is making more sense now.” Her brows bunch, confused about something.
The team actively tries to stay ahead of the media, but no one tipped us off about the ad. Now that it’s in print, I home in on a bigger security issue: who’s behind this bullshit?
“Is that phone number familiar to you?” I ask Jane.
“Not at all.”
I study the number. “It’s a Philly area code.”
“It is,” she agrees, and then takes a brief pause. “Thatcher, this is a full-page ad. It must’ve cost…a great amount of money.” Her eyes flit to me with intel that I need. Jane Cobalt is smart as all hell, and the whole world knows that fact.
But I’m fortunate enough that I get to see all of who she is on a daily basis.
I process what she’s telling me, and my jaw hardens. “Whoever made the ad has money to burn.”
“Precisely.” She squints at the paper. “That picture they printed is from my Instagram.” Her fingertip brushes the photo. “They retouched my hair and face.”
I grip the newspaper with two hands and lift it higher. Inspecting the headshot of Jane where she’s smiling mid-laugh and wearing a turtleneck.
All the normally frizzed strands of her hair are erased, and her freckles are gone.
The fucking jackass who did this—they shrunk her nose and moved her eyes closer together. Naturally, one of her blue eyes is round, the other oval, and they’re the same size in this picture. Her features more symmetrical and even.
I’m going to fucking kill him.
“It’s so odd,” Jane mutters. “You’d think if this were an elaborate prank—‘make Jane Cobalt look like a snobby heiress with shallow taste’—that they’d choose an unflattering photo, not Photoshop me to look prettier.”
“You’re prettier without it,” I say without thinking. Goddammit. It’s too late, and I’m not about to retract what I believe and form a fucking lie. I glance down at her.
Shock slowly breaks apart her lips.
Because I rarely word vomit anything. Anger makes me say what I shouldn’t say, and right now, I’m pissed at an unknown jackass who’s fucking with Jane. My client , I remind myself.
Shouldn’t be thinking about her as anything else.
My stance is stern. Hopefully this just blows in a more appropriate direction. Hopefully it doesn’t —yeah, that devil on my shoulder can take a fucking hike to hell.
Jane presses her lips together, suppressing a bright smile. “If you’re just trying to make me feel better, I’m okay, really. I don’t need reassurance.”
“I know you don’t,” I say seriously. She rarely ever looks for it. “I didn’t say it with any motive.” It just slipped.
Her smile dimples her cheeks, more flushed. She tries to focus on the ad. “Regardless of…that… these Photoshop alterations make me fit with media and societal standards of beauty, so whoever is behind the ad must’ve wanted me to look prettier to the public.”
I drop the newspaper back down to her height. “Could be created by a fan who wants to see you fall in love.” My harsh gaze scorches holes into those five requirements. This jackass wants Jane to be with someone in high society. A business mogul. A helicopter-riding, yacht-owning educated rich prick.
Someone so unlike me.
“It could be,” she says with a no
d. “That seems most likely. I could exhaustively tell the world a million times that I’m perfectly fine on my own and I’m closed for dating and sex forever , and they’d still pull a stunt like this.”
I hear her emphasis on forever.
My bones are iron. I can’t help but think about Nate. That fucking bastard. His name makes me want a boxing bag. Searing a red-hot aggression in my veins.
She’s made a life-long vow of celibacy because of what happened with him. I’m aware. The entire security team is aware. It’s a hot topic among some bodyguards that I’m trying to turn cold.
Every time I walk in on men shooting the shit about Jane and sex, I shut it down.
“Is there a back?” she asks.
I turn the page, and we both read small print at the bottom: turn to page 23 for the accompanying article to the Cinderella ad.
We both flip pages of the newspaper together. With a lot more urgency.
“Here it is,” Jane breathes.
We stop on the article, the ink faded in some spots.
JANE COBALT IS READY FOR LOVE
A close source to America’s most famous families—the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts—has told the Chronicle that the 23-year-old American princess is “over” being single. Jane is seeking a Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet.
This comes after the announcement that her best friend & cousin, Maximoff Hale, is now engaged to his boyfriend & bodyguard, Farrow Keene. Their impending nuptials has sparked a desire in Jane to find a “special someone” to spend the rest of her life with.
It’s been hard for Jane to find true companionship, and avoiding men who want her for fame or money has been difficult in the past. Our source, Jane’s grandmother, confirms.
Now things are about to change as she searches for love the royal way. (See page 52 for the Cinderella ad.)