Guard of heart

The defense

I stared up at the grand chandelier, its crystals shimmering faintly in the soft light from the bedside lamp. This room felt overwhelming—too fancy, too polished. It was like something from a movie, with silk sheets, plush carpet, and thick curtains that shut out the night. The kind of place I never imagined I’d stay in, much less call *my* room.

Yet, here I was, in Mr. Wilkins’ mansion. My bed felt like a giant marshmallow, so soft and luxurious that I could practically sink into it. You’d think I’d fall asleep easily here, but my brain refused to rest, running wild and relentless.

I turned onto my side, hugging a pillow close. It seemed ridiculous to have this comfort while back home, my family was barely scraping by. In this mansion, my dad was probably struggling in his wheelchair. The same small house where my sister and I grew up.

*Dad*. He used to be so strong, working long hours as a mechanic with those big, calloused hands. But after the accident twenty years ago, he’d never walked again. Everything changed after that. Mom passed away not long after, leaving just me, Dad, and Natasha, scrambling to keep afloat.

*Natasha* My elder sister. She stepped up when everything fell apart, quitting school to work at the bakery full-time. It should’ve been the other way around. She deserved more than to spend her life behind a counter, covered in flour. But she did it—for me, for Dad.

I rolled onto my back again, staring at the ceiling. My mind was caught between the past and the future. I was here, in this mansion, trying to build a better life for them, but it felt like I wasn’t doing enough. Natasha and Dad were still stuck in that tiny house.

And now Mr. Wilkins was in the hospital, and I was alone in his big house, trying to make sense of everything. I couldn’t stop thinking of him, lying in a hospital bed, uncertain about his future. He had been so kind, offering me this job when I needed it most. The least I could do was keep things together while he recovered.

The guilt was gnawing at me. *What kind of assistant am I?* Sure, it wasn’t my job to protect him from getting shot, but being his assistant meant more than paperwork. It meant being there when things went wrong, and right now, everything was falling apart.

I sighed and glanced at the clock. Midnight. How was it only midnight?

I sat up, my mind buzzing with the urge to do something. Maybe calling Natasha would help, but it was too late. I’d call her in the morning. For now, I needed to manage this guilt on my own.

With a frustrated sigh, I tossed the blankets aside and went to the window, pulling back the heavy curtains. The cool night air brushed my skin as I looked out. The garden was still, with only occasional rustles in the breeze. I noticed several figures moving along the edge of the bushes. At first, I thought they were just staff or maintenance workers.

Then I saw the gardener, a familiar face from the estate’s regular staff. But alongside him were others who didn’t quite fit the usual roles. There was a woman adjusting the garden lights and another person carrying a tray of refreshments, seemingly preparing for some event. They all appeared to be engaged in routine tasks, but their movements were too deliberate, their focus too sharp.

The way they scanned the area, the attention to detail—they weren’t just regular workers. It dawned on me that these were part of the special force Mr. Wilkins had mentioned. They blended in with everyday tasks, making it hard to spot them as part of the security team. The gardener, the staff preparing refreshments, and even the ones adjusting lights were all part of this covert protection force.

A wave of relief washed over me. Mr. Wilkins hadn’t left the mansion unprotected. He had planned for this, even while he was away. The best of the security team was with him in Switzerland. I wondered what they were doing now. Was he awake? Stable? Who was by his side?

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, the weight of it all bearing down on me. At least the mansion was secure, but my thoughts kept drifting back to him. I should’ve been there.

I stayed at the window for a long time, watching the disguised security patrol the grounds. The night was quiet, but my mind was anything but.

I pulled away from the window and rubbed my tired eyes. Worrying wasn’t going to help anyone—not Mr. Wilkins, not Natasha, and definitely not me. I had to do *something* to keep my mind occupied and stop myself from spiraling into another loop of guilt and “what ifs.”

An idea struck me suddenly. *Self-defense.* I wasn’t some kind of hero, but maybe if I learned a thing or two, I could be more useful if something like this ever happened again. I couldn’t exactly stop a bullet, but I could at least learn to throw a punch, right?

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became. I needed to toughen up. If I couldn’t be there in Switzerland, maybe I could at least stop feeling so helpless. Without another thought, I grabbed my phone and quickly searched, “Basic self-defense moves for beginners.”

Several videos popped up, most with thumbnail images of people in workout gear looking ready to take on the world. Perfect. I picked the one with the most views and hit play.

A super-enthusiastic instructor appeared on the screen, grinning ear to ear. “Welcome to *Self-Defense for Beginners*! Today, we’re going to learn some basic moves to protect yourself in any situation.”

I nodded along, as if the guy could see me. This was good. This was productive. I was learning.

“First, we’re going to try a simple punch,” the instructor said, demonstrating a smooth jab. “Keep your fists up by your face, aim straight, and *pow*—just like that.”

*Okay, easy enough.* I mimicked the stance, hands up by my face, feet spread apart. I took a deep breath, feeling the seriousness of the moment. *This is it, Elara. This is the beginning of your badass transformation.*

I pulled back my fist and… *pow!* My punch came out more like a flailing arm slap. I tried again with more determination, but my form was still more spaghetti than steel.

The instructor moved on to kicks. “Now for a front kick. Bring your knee up first, then extend your leg. Keep your balance and—bam!—kick with power.”

Alright, kick time. I braced myself, lifting my knee just like he showed. But instead of a powerful strike, my foot barely got a few inches off the floor, and I wobbled like a baby deer on ice. I tried again, but my knee knocked into the side of the bed.

“Ow!” I yelped, hopping on one foot and clutching my knee. I glanced around, hoping no one saw, even though I was completely alone in the room.

*Get it together, Elara.* I straightened up and tried again, this time overcompensating and kicking way too high. My foot flew out, and before I knew it, I was spinning off balance, arms flailing wildly. I crashed into the bed, face-first into the marshmallowy softness, my leg still hanging in the air like some ridiculous action movie pose gone wrong.

“Bam?” I muttered into the blankets, lifting my head slightly. I could practically feel the universe laughing at me.

I pushed myself up, now determined not to let my lack of coordination defeat me. The instructor had moved on to something called an elbow strike. “Great for close combat,” he said, as if I’d ever be in close combat. But hey, I’d come this far, right?

I watched him carefully, throwing his elbow forward in a controlled, powerful motion. *I can do that*, I thought, trying to hype myself up. I squared my shoulders, planted my feet again, and swung my elbow out—

—only to knock over the lamp on the nightstand with a loud *crash*.

“Ahh!” I jumped back, staring at the lamp in horror. “No, no, no…”