Under Her Protection

Chapter 3

Minji POV

I'm outside Ms. Pham's penthouse door, same as every morning, the hallway quiet except for the occasional hum of the elevator down the hall. It's early, the building's still in that early-morning hush. This routine's drilled into me—always arrive first, secure the area before she steps out. Today's another big one; I'm escorting her to a meeting at the label, some high-stakes talk with the execs that's had her on edge for days. Nothing I haven't done a dozen times on other assignments of mine, yet somehow, there's an energy in the air that makes me hyper-aware, like I'm waiting for something beyond the ordinary.

I've been shadowing Ms. Pham for nearly 72 hours now. The job is straightforward—follow her, stay close, stay invisible. It's become almost mechanical: watch, anticipate, protect. But in these three days, I've learned more about her than any amount research could've provided.

I know her schedule down to the minute, every preference, every routine. She drinks her coffee without sugar and dislikes when people waste her time. She's efficient, straight to the point, but I've noticed she's warm with the few people she trusts, even indulging in small talk with them. There's also a mischievous side to her. She plays little games, trying to slip out of my sight, weaving through corners or crowds as if to see if I can keep up. And while her stubbornness should make this assignment more tedious, I find myself suppressing a laugh whenever I catch her frown, frustrated that she couldn't shake me off.

But somewhere along the line, I've started noticing things I shouldn't.

When she thinks no one's looking, her shoulders lower, her guard softens for just a moment—almost like a sigh she won't let herself release. There's a faraway look in her eyes when she's alone, a heaviness that contradicts the razor-sharp, controlled woman the world sees. I find myself wondering how long it's taken her to perfect that public mask, how much she hides behind her composed exterior. She's convincing, and most people buy it without question. But part of what qualifies me for this job is the instinct for reading people. I've been trained to detect false smiles, to hear what someone isn't saying. With Ms. Pham, I see past her polished exterior to something she probably doesn't share with anyone.

And the strange thing is—there's no malice, no hidden agenda behind her mask. Her polite, practiced smiles aren't born of deceit; they're shields. And a part of me almost wishes she weren't so good, so honest. If she were just another difficult public figure with a hidden dark side, it might make her easier to compartmentalize. It would be simpler to think of her as just a job, just another assignment. But she isn't that. She's... something else.

Then there's the simple truth: she's beautiful. There's a grace in her every movement, a softness in her voice when she talks to those she cares about. Her laugh—the real one, not the media-friendly one—is rich and full of life. I've heard it only a couple of times, like a rare glimpse of something precious and unguarded.

My job is to keep her safe, to stay sharp, ready to pick up on even the faintest hint of trouble. That's what I'm supposed to be focusing on. But somehow, no matter how much I tell myself to stay professional, my attention slips. I catch myself noticing how her hair falls over her shoulder, the way it catches the light when she moves, or how her eyes narrow, locked in that intense focus whenever she's onstage or just lost in thought. It's like every single detail is carving itself right into my mind. Useless details. They don't make my job any easier; if anything, they're distractions. And yet, I can't seem to look away.

And then, there's the way she looks at me—quick, almost subtle glances that pull me in before I even realize it. Every time her gaze lands on me, there's this pull, this steady thud in my chest that throws me off-kilter, a rhythm I can't seem to control no matter how hard I try.