Layla Hart was sixteen when fame stapled a target to her back. Now every stalker letter arrives taped inside her own eyeliner: her lipstick smeared across the mirror like a kiss from the grave. She smiles for cameras while her pulse fractures, because no one believes the monster is real except the bodyguard paid to keep breathing.
Shane Mercer carries his six-year-old daughter’s lunchbox in one hand and Layla’s heartbeat in the other. The first time Layla whispers please outside his bedroom door, he tastes every reason he should walk away. Then the stalker slips inside the fortress, writes Layla’s name across the sheets in blood-red, and Shane realizes the only safe place left is the space between his body and hers. If the killer wants her, he’ll have to go through Shane first. And Shane just decided dying is worth it.