Chapter 140 Bodyguard
Charlotte：POV
Three days after the DNA test bombshell, I found myself sitting in Olivia's sleek Tesla, watching the San Francisco skyline blur past as we headed toward a security firm.
My mind was still reeling from discovering David wasn't my biological father, but today's mission provided a welcome distraction.
"You're quiet," Olivia said, glancing at me. "Still processing everything?"
I nodded, staring out the window. "It's like I've been living someone else's life. I keep wondering who I really am."
"You're still Charlotte Caldwell," she replied firmly. "DNA doesn't change who you've become."
Something in her tone made me look over. There was a softness in her expression I hadn't seen before—a vulnerability beneath her usual composed exterior.
"How's your little one doing?" I asked, realizing I hadn't inquired about her son since we'd reconnected.
Olivia's face transformed instantly, her features softening into a smile. "Ethan's amazing. He's started making these little cooing sounds when Blake reads to him. It's... it's everything."
"Motherhood has changed you," I observed, surprised by how relaxed she seemed discussing her child. The Olivia I remembered from our Jason takedown days was all business and efficiency.
She laughed. "In ways I never expected. I used to think having a baby would derail everything I'd worked for. Now I can't imagine life without him."
"It's nice," I said, meaning it. "Seeing you like this. Motherhood suits you."
"It's taught me what actually matters," she replied, turning onto a tree-lined street. "Speaking of which, we're here. These guys are the best in the business—Blake uses them for his properties."
The security company occupied a modern glass building with "Sentinel Protection Services" etched on the entrance. Inside, we were greeted by a stern-faced woman who led us to a conference room where six men stood in perfect formation, all wearing identical black suits.
"Ms. Parker, Ms. Caldwell," the woman said. "These are our top personal security specialists. Each has military or law enforcement background and extensive VIP protection training."
I scanned the line of men, feeling oddly like I was at some bizarre bodyguard auction. Five of them kept glancing at me and Olivia, their eyes darting back and forth as if assessing potential threats. But one—the tallest one at the end—stood perfectly still, eyes fixed straight ahead, his posture impeccable.
He stood at least 6'3", with broad shoulders that strained slightly against his tailored suit. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, and his dark hair was cropped close to his scalp in a military-style cut.
"Could we see them in action?" I asked, my gaze lingering on the stoic one. "I'd like to know what I'm paying for."
The woman nodded. "Of course. We have a demonstration area in the back."
We followed her through a door that led to a padded training room. The six men arranged themselves in pairs, demonstrating takedown techniques, defensive maneuvers, and threat assessment. I watched carefully, noting how they moved and reacted.
The stoic one—Michael, according to his name badge—caught my attention again as he faced off against a colleague who outweighed him by at least thirty pounds. The larger man lunged forward, attempting to grab Michael's lapels.
In one fluid motion, Michael sidestepped, caught his opponent's wrist, and used the man's momentum to flip him onto the mat. The takedown was so smooth it almost looked choreographed.
Next came a knife defense demonstration. Michael's partner pulled a rubber training knife, slashing at him with practiced precision. Michael's response was mesmerizing—he blocked the attack with his forearm, stepped inside his opponent's guard, and disarmed him in seconds, twisting the knife away and pinning the man's arm behind his back.
Throughout it all, his expression remained calm, almost detached, as if this were as routine as making coffee.
There was something familiar about him, especially the small scar above his right eyebrow that curved like a crescent moon. I couldn't place it, but it nagged at me.
"That one," I said, pointing to him after the demonstrations ended. "What's his background?"
"That's Michael Sullivan. Marine Force Recon, two tours in Afghanistan, specialized in close protection for high-ranking officials in conflict zones."
"I'd like to see him in a one-on-one scenario," I said, surprising myself with my interest.
The woman nodded and called Michael forward. Another security specialist approached him, playing the role of an attacker. What followed was impressive—Michael neutralized his "assailant" with minimal movement, using the man's momentum against him. There was no wasted energy, no showboating—just pure, controlled power.
In the final demonstration, Michael faced three attackers simultaneously. He positioned himself strategically, keeping all three in his line of sight.
When they rushed him from different angles, he moved with startling speed—dropping the first with a sweep to the legs, blocking the second's punch and countering with an elbow strike that stopped just short of contact, then spinning to catch the third in a hold that immobilized him completely.
The entire sequence took less than ten seconds.
A thin sheen of sweat was the only indication that he had exerted himself at all. As he released his opponent and stepped back, his eyes briefly met mine. Something electric passed between us—recognition? Interest? I couldn't tell, but it sent an unexpected shiver down my spine.
"I'll take him," I said decisively.
Michael's expression didn't change, but I noticed a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, perhaps?
"Excellent choice, Ms. Caldwell," the woman said. "Mr. Sullivan is one of our best. We'll draw up the paperwork immediately."
As Olivia discussed logistics with the woman, I approached Michael directly. Up close, I could see the faint lines around his eyes that suggested he was in his mid-twenties, and a small nick on his chin that looked like an old shaving cut.
"I expect complete professionalism," I said, studying his face. That scar was really bothering me—I knew I'd seen it before. "You'll be with me most hours of the day. Is that going to be a problem?"
"No, ma'am," he replied, his voice deep and controlled.
"Good. When can you start?"
"Immediately."
I nodded, satisfied with his concise answers. "One more thing—where will you be staying? I need you accessible at all times."
For the first time, Michael seemed caught off guard. "I... hadn't considered that. My apartment is company housing. Once I'm assigned to you, I'll need to vacate."
"That won't work," I said firmly. "I need you close by in case of emergencies."
He hesitated, uncertainty crossing his features. "Where would you suggest I stay, then?"
I met his eyes directly, my decision already made. Something about this man made me feel safe—safer than I'd felt in years. And right now, with David's threats and Sean's violence hanging over me, safety was what I needed most.
"With me, of course," I replied simply.
His eyes widened fractionally—the first real emotion I'd seen from him—before his professional mask slipped back into place. But in that brief moment of surprise, I caught a glimpse of something that looked strangely like recognition.
Did he know me? Did I know him? The question lingered as we finalized the arrangements, but I pushed it aside. Whatever the connection, it could wait. Right now, I needed protection, and Michael Sullivan seemed perfectly capable of providing it.
As we left the building with arrangements for Michael to report to my penthouse that evening, Olivia gave me a curious look.
"You're sure about this? Having him live in your home?"
I nodded, watching as Michael loaded his few possessions into my car. "Completely sure."