FATAL TROUBLE | JAY

5 - Pieces of A Puzzle

Y/N's POV

Discreet. That's what my brother said about this next bodyguard of mine, so why is he sitting beside me, in my own car, on my way to my own meeting? I steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye. Discreet? Hardly the word I'd use to describe the imposing figure occupying the back seat of my black Maserati. Broad shoulders strained against the leather interior, and a sharp jawline is accentuated by the way he clenches it, eyes narrowed on the road ahead. 

"Are you always this quiet?" I blurt out, breaking the silence that had settled between us since we left my apartment this morning. The man spent the whole night standing watch over me, and now, here he is, silent as a shadow in the morning light.

He turns his head to look at me, his gaze piercing. "Depends on the situation." I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him, his presence suddenly suffocating. Jinyoung glances at us from the rearview mirror, concern etched in his features. I shake my head and give him a reassuring smile, pretending I'm in control of the situation—a situation that feels increasingly like a runaway train.

"If you can't handle a little conversation, how are you going to handle protecting me?" My words seem to pique his curiosity more than irritate him. The nonchalant way he looks away and continues his silent vigil out the window has me fuming more than I care to admit.

"I'm not paid to entertain you," He speaks, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the car. "I'm paid to keep you alive." 

I force a smile, the taste of metallic fear clinging to my tongue. "If you're so desperate for money, I can pay you to entertain me. Though honestly," I add with a humorless laugh, "considering your conversational skills, I wouldn't pay much." 

After what feels like ages, Jinyoung finally pulls up to our building, parking the Maserati before he turns to face me, his eyes silently asking if I'm ready. I nod, taking a deep breath as I'm about to open the door when Jay opens it for me, making me look back at his door in confusion. How is he so fast? How is he so... gentlemanly like, even? The unexpected courtesy throws me off balance for a moment.

I get out of the car, stealing a quick glance at him as he closes the door behind me. "Ready, Miss Lee?" He gestures for me to walk ahead, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down my spine. I nod, trying to ignore the way his presence seems to swallow me whole, enveloping me in protection and danger all at once. We take the elevator, he presses the seventh floor and I'm left staring at him, dumbfounded. 

"How did you know it's the seventh floor?" A chill runs down my spine. What if he ran some background check on me? What if he stalked me? What if information about me is so easily accessible? 

"Intuition." He simply says, making my frown deepen before he decides to stop being so damn cryptic. "Your driver mentioned your meeting was on the top floor," he says, his voice as smooth and controlled as the elevator's ascent. "High floors often house executive suites, and considering the prestige of this building, the seventh floor is likely the highest with office space. Educated guess, really." There is a quiet confidence in his explanation, a hint of a skillset I hadn't seen before. He isn't just muscle, this bodyguard. There's a sharp mind behind those steely eyes.

"So you're a Sherlock Holmes in disguise?" I couldn't resist the comment, the tension easing a fraction with this unexpected display of intelligence.

He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. "Something like that," he replies, his tone devoid of humor. "It's called situational awareness, Miss Lee. A bodyguard's best friend."

The elevator doors whoosh open, revealing a plushly carpeted hallway lined with polished mahogany doors. Jay exits first, his hand hovering near his hip where I presume a weapon is concealed. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him, though I'm very well aware I could be found dead in this very same hallway. "You have a gun?" My fingers tremble ever so slightly at the thought of the lethal weapon. For some reason, the very mention of it makes its sound ring in my ears and my heart feels like it's about to burst out of my chest. 

"Yes," He replies simply, his voice steady and calm. "Wouldn't you rather have it and not need it, than need it and not have it?" 

"Right," The logic behind his words is undeniable. I walk past him, wishing for a moment of solitude in the confines of my office. But it seems he's willing to follow me all the way in. With a follow me all the way in. The man follows, his presence filling the room as he conducts a quick sweep, checking every corner and potential hiding spot. I set my bag down on my desk, sinking onto my chair before switching on my screens and forcing myself to focus on the mountain of paperwork waiting for me. 

Minutes stretch into an hour, the silence in the room broken only by the soft clicking of keys and the rustle of papers. Jay stands by the door, his eyes scanning the room periodically. This would have been so much easier if he didn't look like he's about to erupt from boredom. I want to focus. I want to do nothing but ignore him and pretend that he's not here. That his presence is not sending shivers down my spine every time he shifts his weight. It's a ridiculous reaction, a traitorous tingle considering the current state of my life. Yet, there's something undeniably captivating about the way he holds himself, a coiled intensity that both unnerves and strangely intrigues me.

Finally, unable to take it anymore, I slam my laptop shut. The sharp sound makes him jump slightly, his gaze snapping towards me. "Is something wrong?" 

"So, bodyguard," I start, bracing myself. "Are you going to tell me what you're really thinking? Because right now, all I see is a very bored statue guarding a very stressed-out CEO."

"Professional observation," He replies smoothly. "Silence can be a valuable tool. It allows you to focus on potential threats, subtle changes in the environment." I hate how professional he is. I hate how he stands there, staring at me as if I'm some sort of fragile doll waiting to be broken. I hate how I'm the only one who seems to be cracking under the pressure. 

"Well, your silence is driving me crazy," I snap, leaning back in my chair. "How am I supposed to get anything done when you're looming over me like some kind of grim reaper?" I run a hand through my hair, annoyance and frustration warring within me. "You know what? You can get me some coffee to clear my head. I'm running on fumes—"

"I'm not your errand boy," He finishes my sentence, his voice firm but not unkind. But it's what makes me explode. My temper, that is. 

"Considering you're technically on my brother's payroll, getting me a cup wouldn't exactly break the bank, would it?" I'm surprised by my own outburst. The words tumble out before I can reel them in, laced with a bitterness I can't quite explain. 

He raises an eyebrow, unfazed by my sudden aggression. "My job description doesn't include fetching coffee, Miss Lee. It includes keeping you safe—"

"By turning me into a prisoner in my own office?" I interrupt, my voice regaining some control but still laced with frustration. "I'm suffocated. I hate your presence. I'm already paranoid about having eyes watching me while I'm clueless and having people hunt me like I'm some sort of prey. Can't you be a little less obvious?" 

He doesn't react with anger, though. Instead, he studies me for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. "You got into a car accident," My breath hitches and I freeze, the memory flashing hit in my mind. Glass shattering, the sickening crunch of metal, the world tilting on its axis. "I'm sure you know the drunk driver got out of jail a few days ago. The fact that someone is stalking you now, attempting to attack you inside your own workplace, even, should be enough to tell you it's not random. And I'm sure you realize whoever your stalker is, the drunk driver or someone else entirely, they have a reason. What's the reason?" 

My fingers grip onto the arms of my chair, knuckles turning white. The memory of the accident slams into me, a wave of terror and helplessness. I don't know. I don't know anything. I tell myself over and over, forcing the words back into my throat, swallowing them down with the lump that forms there. But I know. Gosh, I know exactly why someone would want to harm me.  Father did not pass away, he was murdered. But the truth is a puzzle whose pieces I can't seem to grasp.