The office suddenly feels confined and Devon takes up too much space. There is only him, all wide shoulders and towering height in my space.

He lifts his hands from my shoulders, but keeps them near me. "What happened to you after you graduated?"

"What happened to Keith the night he died?"

I try to shove past him, because I know he won't answer, but I'm shaking. I'm going to throw up. I can't breathe.

No. No. No.

Not now! Twice in the same morning. I can't breathe. I heave for air, and my legs give out when my head spins. Then he catches me, lifting me up.

He carries me easily back to the sofa and I hate him for being strong when I'm weak. But I also curl my face to his chest, telling myself to stop hyperventilating. I breathe in his masculine, clean scent—soap with leather and whiskey, a hint of vanilla—concentrate on how his warmth. I hate that I can't control my own body, but I love that he holds me—unquestioning. Instantly.

He sets me on my side on the long sofa and kneels again in front of me. He brushes hair from my face with the tips of his fingers.

It takes a long time for my heart to stop racing, but he never leaves or stops watching, waiting with me. Something flickers in his eyes. Fire. Longing. My heart skips for a different reason and I remember how I imagined pulling him on top of me on the sofa. I curl my fingers in his.

"Is that what went wrong?" he asks when I'm breathing normally again.

I nod, not wanting to talk.

He holds my hands. "Stage fright or..."

"Panic attacks," I say, sighing. "It has nothing to do with the stage, but the first time it hit was when I had a small solo for a recital, one of my first jobs. I thought I was having a heart attack and was going to die. I haven't been able to find work since. It's like I'm cursed."

"You don't need to find work. We take care of our own."

I sit up. "Seriously?"

Only a minute ago, I was in his arms as he carried me across his office, and now he's selling me a job here.

He chuckles. "Seriously. Avery, I—"

He breaks off and practically jumps away from me. Was he afraid my panic attacks were contagious? He backs up to lean against his desk, arms crossed. He's all business now, that warmth, the desire I thought I saw erased from his eyes.

When he continues, his voice is hard and matter-of-fact. "Health insurance, a decent salary, generous tips, and doing what you love, what you were made to do. Singing. Here. Where I can watch over you."

"I don't need to be watched, Devon."

"I think you're forgetting there's a psychopath out there, targeting singers. At Stay Gold, I have security." (ONC 8K)

"When I leave and go home to my apartment, though, I won't have security, so that doesn't help." I think of the man on the street corner. He was huge and scary despite the fluffy coat. A stocking cap on his head, features lost in the shadows. He could have been any large man in the city. He could be anyone at all, and he was watching my building, I'm sure of it.

My hands are trembling again. I clutch them in fists. He notices, eyes nailed to my hands on my lap, but he doesn't mention them.

"You can stay here, in that case. There's a Murphy," he nods at the far wall with an unusually bulky bookshelf. "Twenty-four-seven security."

"Live in your office?" I scoff. "Then what? Never go anywhere just because I might be targeted out of hundreds of other singers in the city?"

"Yes."

He isn't joking. He'd go to any length to make sure I'm not the next victim. Part of me wants to let him protect me. To surrender to his strength and steady confidence.

"This isn't reasonable, Devon. Statistically, what are the chances I would be attacked, out of all the sopranos who have bigger profiles, better careers than me?"

"I don't care about them," he says.

I widen my eyes and he groans.

"That came out wrong," he says. "I can't let anything happen you to you. It's in my power to protect you, so that is what I'll do."

He's speaking so low, I can barely hear him from my spot across the room on the sofa, but there's an edge to tone, something solid, almost dangerous, as if he's already threatening anyone who comes near me.

Everything is going too fast, though.

"I'm not agreeing," I say, "and I'm not refusing your offer, either. I need to go home and think."

"No. You need to stay here where it's safe. Talk to my people about wardrobe fittings and voice lessons."

"You have people for that?" I don't know much about night clubs, but that sounds insane to me. Who provides wardrobe fittings and voice lessons to their employees?

He doesn't answer. Instead, he circles his desk and presses a button on his phone. A woman answers. "Have Bethany and Mika come up if they are in to meet someone."

I sit up, calculating. How much money does this place actually make, and how much money does Devon Orlando have? I've heard rumors about his bank account. About him blowing through hundreds of thousands of dollars on weekend vacations to Vegas and Los Angeles. About his piles of hundred dollar bills, diamonds in bags, luxury cars and watches, as well as private jets and limousines and, yes, drugs, for out-of-this-world parties.

But I've never heard of him providing these kinds of services to the people—the women—who work for him.

All this leaves me circling back to my questions from earlier. Why did Elena leave?

"Wait," I say. "Before I talk to anyone else, before I sign anything, tell me truthfully, wh—"

"I can't tell you anything but the truth about your brother, Avery. I am sorry, but it was an accident."

"Don't interrupt me. I'm asking about Elena, your other singer. Why did she leave if this place is so great?"

He puts his hands on his desk, a weariness coming over him. But only for a moment.

"Her mother was recently diagnosed with stage four cancer and only has a few months left. She wanted to be with her mother, which I understand. In fact, she didn't leave her job here—she's on hiatus with twenty-five percent of her salary for up to a year."

"Oh my god. How awful."

"Her mother lives in Maine, right on the coast. When she's ready, Elena will come back."

I'm silent for a long time, feeling like a jerk. Partial salary for up to a year and he's holding onto her job for her while she stays with her mother until the end? Offers like that didn't exist in the real world. Only in Devon's. My heart squeezes. What would I do if I found out my mother was dying? Would she even want me by her side.

Then I realize something.

"So this—" I motion at myself and then the office. "—is temporary. Until Elena returns?"

Every line on Devon's face hardens. "Avery, now that I've found you again, I have no intention of letting you out of my sight."

*** ONC 1220 words. Hit the star if you enjoyed this one - and have a fabulous day! ***