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“My freaking agent has been acting like I’m about to walk into a war zone.”

“Not a war zone,” I say. “But close enough.”

Her gaze sharpens.

“What does that mean?”

I wait as the driver pulls into a long driveway.

Debra hops out, one finger plugging her ear while she chatters on.

The driver exits next and moves to get Amanda’s luggage.

And I turn in my seat so she can see I’m serious.

“Look, I don’t know what they told you, Amanda, but this is serious.”

“Serious? How serious?”

Her eyes go wide, and fuck me, I want to reach out and touch her, comfort her.

I wish I still had that right.

“Someone’s been sending warnings about your performance.”

Her expression changes.

Not fear yet.

But attention.

“Warnings?”

“Two so far. Sent directly to the estate coordinator.”

“Fans do weird things sometimes,” she says dismissively. “I’ve had creepy messages before.”

“These weren’t fan messages.”

Her fingers tighten around her bag.

“What did they say?”

I hold her gaze.

“Cancel the performance.”

“Or?”

“Or you die.”

Carter’s estate looms ahead, and I clock the security cameras as they swivel toward us.

The iron gates close behind us.

The place is a fortress—thank fuck for that.

It should make my job easier.