Chapter 3: Abby's Hero - part 2

“But Daddy always does what Abby asks…”

“Not always.”

“Always.”

I looked into my daughter’s eyes. Five years old, and she could read me better than any trained agent I’d ever commanded.

“Go.”

She huffed but slipped off my lap and ran back to Hanna. My secretary gave me a tired glance—clearly over the girl’s persistence—and left, closing the door gently behind her.

Alone again.

But her name didn’t leave my mind.

Celeste Castell.

Someone who could act under pressure.

Risk herself for a child she didn’t even know.

Long hair. Beautiful smile. Smelled like candy.

Damn it.

I pulled out my phone and opened Hanna’s call log. There it was—saved as “Abby’s Hero” with a star emoji.

Of course.

I copied it, leaned back in my chair, and stared at the ceiling.

Shit.

A complete stranger had saved my daughter’s life… and now I was about to invite her into my home.

If this was a trap, it was clever. Well played.

But my gut told me otherwise.

And my gut rarely fails me.

I stared at the closed door for a while.

Abby’s absence was louder than her presence.

And in that silence, the ghosts returned.

But I silenced them the way I always had—by working.

I swiveled back to the desk and opened my laptop.

The dossiers were still open. Three targets stared at me like old enemies.

But that wasn’t what I wanted to see right now.

I clicked the search bar.

Typed Celeste Castell.

Hit Enter.

Images began to appear.

Mostly social media. The kind of content I usually dismissed instantly—young woman, typical posts, pictures, videos. Irrelevant.

But the eyes…

Those eyes looked familiar.

Too familiar.

I scrolled slowly. One photo made me stop.

She was sitting on the floor next to a canvas filled with sunflowers, hands stained with paint, a tired smile on her face. She wore a simple dress that clung to her curves, sunlit skin glowing through the window. Wide hips. Thick thighs. A neckline that, though modest, drew my fucking eyes like a magnet.

Beautiful.

Beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be.

I closed the tab with a sharp click.

Idiot.

My daughter had almost been hit by a car.

The girl saved her.

That’s what mattered.

Not her legs.

Not the red paint on her chin.

Not the way that damn dress hugged her hips.

Fuck.

I slammed the laptop shut, pushed the chair back, and stood up.

I rolled my shoulders, cracking my spine.

The real world was calling. It always called.

I crouched under the desk and discreetly pressed the embedded button underneath. A mechanical click sounded immediately.

Behind me, the bookshelf wall shifted with a soft gear-whir, revealing a narrow, dark passage.

The blue light inside flickered twice before fully illuminating.

I stepped in.

The air inside was colder.

More real.

More mine.

The walls were lined with monitors, surveillance panels, and digital maps. In the back, a steel cabinet held my “tools”: guns, forged documents, bugs, trackers, masks.

The black balaclava dangling from the hook seemed to grin at me.

I slipped on the thermal shirt, fastened the holster to my side, and laced the boots tightly. Every move was precise. Quick. Instinctual.

When I was done, I grabbed the earpiece from its hook and slid it on.

The internal system fed me mission data.

But I barely heard it.

Her face still lingered.

Celeste Castell.

Why did it feel like I already knew her?

This wasn’t just desire—I knew desire.

I knew how it burned and vanished.

This was different.

This was an echo.

I left the hidden room, closed the panel, and headed for the office door.

But before I crossed it, I grabbed my phone and dialed.

“Hanna.”

“Yes, sir?” Her voice, as always, crisp and reliable.

“Hire the girl. Abby’s hero.”

A short pause.

“Miss Castell?”

“Yes. Handle the details. She starts tomorrow. But I want full supervision—cameras, logged entries, and monitored routines. No surprises.”

“Understood.”

“And Hanna…” My voice lowered.

“Yes?”

“If she makes even the slightest mistake… let me know before you even think about letting her go.”

“Of course.”

I hung up.

But even after handling that “loose end,” her eyes lingered.

Still itched behind my mind like a warning I couldn’t shake.

Some part of me already knew that by hiring her, I was opening a door I’d never be able to close.

But my daughter had asked.

And I always answered when she called.

Even if it costs me my damn peace.