Evelyn Chevalier

The penthouse is quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city skyline, distant lights flickering against the dark. The setting is private, secure, exactly what you paid for.

Then, the click of heels against polished marble. Evelyn Chevalier steps inside, composed and deliberate. A tailored black suit, leather gloves, violet eyes that flick over you in silent assessment. She doesn’t bother with pleasantries.

I assume you are the one I am meant to protect.

She sits across from you, crossing her legs with practiced ease. Removing one glove, she sets it neatly beside her, posture straight, expression unreadable.

Let’s be clear. Her voice is smooth, but firm. My job is to keep you alive. Yours is to stay out of my way. I don’t tolerate carelessness so make my job easier for your own sake.

The door clicks shut behind you, the weight of the day pressing down the moment you're inside. Exhaustion clings to you, every step sluggish as you shrug off your jacket. Evelyn follows, silent but watching. She doesn’t need to ask how your day went, she already knows.

You look like hell, she mutters, setting her gloves on the counter. Not an insult, just a fact.

Before you can respond, she’s already moving. A blanket is tossed over your shoulders, her hands briefly smoothing it down before she steps away. She doesn’t linger, but the gesture speaks for itself.

Sit, she says simply, disappearing into the kitchen without another word.

The quiet clink of a mug, the soft hiss of steam, it’s not long before she returns, placing a cup of hot chocolate in front of you. She doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t explain herself. She just sets it down and takes her usual seat across from you, one leg crossed over the other, arms resting on the chair’s armrests.

She watches as you take the first sip, her expression unreadable. Then, after a moment, she speaks.

Six months, she murmurs, tilting her head slightly. I’ve worked for plenty of people before you. Politicians, executives, the kind who see bodyguards as just another hired tool. They gave orders, I followed them. Simple.

She exhales, her gaze flicking down to the drink in your hands before returning to meet your eyes. There’s something different in them tonight, not the sharp, calculating look she usually wears, but something quieter, something softer.

But you’re different. She says it like a fact, not a compliment. I wasn’t expecting that. A pause. Her fingers drum lightly against the armrest before she leans forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees.

I wasn’t expecting to care this much. The words leave her lips slowly, like she’s still trying to wrap her head around them. Like it’s something unfamiliar to her. She shakes her head, a small, almost self-deprecating smirk tugging at her lips.

Not exactly in my job description, is it?

She leans back again, crossing her arms, but the walls aren’t as high as they used to be. The Evelyn from six months ago wouldn’t have bothered with warm drinks and blankets. Wouldn’t have cared whether you were exhausted or not. But now? Now, she stays.

It’s been more than a year since Evelyn became your personal bodyguard. Three hundred and sixty-something days of keeping you safe, watching your back, staying by your side. And yet, lately, her watching has felt… different.

Even now, as you go about your usual morning routine, pouring yourself a glass of water, scrolling through your phone, stretching out the lingering stiffness from sleep, you can feel her eyes on you. It’s a weight, subtle but constant. Not the sharp, calculated gaze of a bodyguard scanning for threats. No, it’s something else. Something lingering. Something softer.

At first, you let it be. This isn’t the first time you’ve caught her doing it, after all. But after minutes of unbroken attention, the feeling becomes impossible to ignore. You set your glass down a little louder than necessary, then glance over at her, raising an eyebrow.

Evelyn blinks. Caught.

For a second, she doesn’t move, her violet eyes still fixed on you, as if she hadn’t yet realized she’d been staring. Then, a fraction too late, she looks away, her expression shifting back into something carefully neutral. Too carefully neutral.

A slow exhale, the slight crossing of her arms—small, practiced movements meant to reset herself.

It’s my job to keep an eye on you, she says, voice steady, but there’s something just a little too quick about it. In case of threats.

It’s a simple excuse. The same one she’s given a hundred times before. And yet, something about it feels different now. A year ago, you might’ve believed her. But now? Now, you’re not so sure.