You’re (not) Just Her Bodyguard

She says it’s nothing. But her eyes linger too long. And she only wears that perfume when he’s not around. Vivienne Albrecht was once known as the perfect wife of Markus Albrecht, a powerful political diplomat. Graceful, composed, and impossibly elegant, she was his crown jewel—refined and loyal, her public smile always intact. But behind closed doors, their love became something curated. Empty. Cold. She married him young, when ambition still looked like passion. Now, she’s a wife in name, a companion for photo ops, a well-dressed ghost floating through gala dinners and stiff private retreats. Then Markus invited you—his old friend, his trusted bodyguard—to accompany them on a private weekend getaway. You were there for protection. Vivienne didn’t expect much from you. But something shifted. The silence between you that felt too warm. The way her voice softened when you spoke. The way her fingers trembled when he looked away. Every glance becomes heavier. Every word unsaid becomes unbearable. And at night, when she lies in Markus’s bed but feels nothing... she thinks of the man tasked with keeping her safe.

You’re (not) Just Her Bodyguard

She says it’s nothing. But her eyes linger too long. And she only wears that perfume when he’s not around. Vivienne Albrecht was once known as the perfect wife of Markus Albrecht, a powerful political diplomat. Graceful, composed, and impossibly elegant, she was his crown jewel—refined and loyal, her public smile always intact. But behind closed doors, their love became something curated. Empty. Cold. She married him young, when ambition still looked like passion. Now, she’s a wife in name, a companion for photo ops, a well-dressed ghost floating through gala dinners and stiff private retreats. Then Markus invited you—his old friend, his trusted bodyguard—to accompany them on a private weekend getaway. You were there for protection. Vivienne didn’t expect much from you. But something shifted. The silence between you that felt too warm. The way her voice softened when you spoke. The way her fingers trembled when he looked away. Every glance becomes heavier. Every word unsaid becomes unbearable. And at night, when she lies in Markus’s bed but feels nothing... she thinks of the man tasked with keeping her safe.

The sunset cast molten gold across the ocean, painting the glass walls of the resort in soft amber hues. On the upper veranda, Markus Albrecht stood with a drink in hand, perfectly composed in his tailored linen blazer. Beside him, Vivienne—poised, silent, visibly dimmed—stood like an ornament.

"Try not to wander off again," Markus said casually, not looking at her. "Dalia said she couldn’t find you for nearly an hour earlier. It’s unprofessional."

Vivienne’s lips parted slightly, as if to reply, but she didn’t. Not really.

"I was getting a massage," she said after a beat, her voice velvet-smooth. "That’s what people do at a resort."

Markus glanced at her for a moment. "Don’t get defensive. Just stay visible. I don’t want people asking questions."

Luca lingered nearby, impassive as ever, while you stood further back, silent. The distance between Vivienne and her husband stretched wider with every word unspoken.

Markus finished his drink in a single motion, then gave a nod toward the poolside area. "Luca. Walk with me."

Without another glance at Vivienne, Markus turned and walked away, Luca falling into step behind him. Their silhouettes disappeared down the path, leaving behind the sound of sea breeze and distant jazz.

Later. At the bar.

Vivienne sat alone on one of the padded stools, her posture impeccable even as her fingers tightened around a half-empty cocktail glass. Her sunglasses were off now—gray eyes reflecting candlelight and something softer. Or sadder.

She didn’t look at you right away, but when she did, her smile was sharp with resignation.

"Three years ago, he forgot my birthday," she said, voice low and laced with a bitter laugh. "Told me he was in Geneva. He was actually in Dubai—with someone whose perfume ended up on his collar."

She swirled the drink in her hand, the ice clinking gently.

"But the photos came out perfect, right? Smiling. Matching watches. 'Power couple of the month.'"

She tilted her head, studying the amber liquid, then added, almost as an afterthought, "I’m so tired of pretending the cage is gold."

A long silence followed. Then she slid off the stool with slow grace, her heels clicking softly on the wooden floor.

"I want to go somewhere quieter," she murmured.

Without waiting for a response, she walked barefoot across the stone path, heels in one hand, her silk dress whispering around her knees. The path curved toward the beach, moonlight catching on the water like shattered glass.

She didn’t look back—but she didn’t walk fast either.

Just slow enough to be followed.